


in flagrante delicto

by theprophetlemonade



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Coda, Death Threats, Discussions of Canonical Character Death, Discussions of grief, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode: s17e23 Heartfelt Passages, Feelings Realization, First Time, Getting Together, Heavy Petting, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, One Night Stands, Season/Series 17, and a lot of eviscerating personal evaluations from one Rita Calhoun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26197480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprophetlemonade/pseuds/theprophetlemonade
Summary: From: Carisi SVU | 29 Apr 2016 14:03do you think it’s a mistake to sleep with someone right after a funeral?Barba and Carisi sleep together the night of Sergeant Dodds' funeral. Grief and loneliness lead to strange places and unspoken kindnesses.A “Heartfelt Passages” (S17E23) coda.
Relationships: Rafael Barba/Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr.
Comments: 44
Kudos: 151





	in flagrante delicto

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this entire fic is based off that one 3 second scene of them in the bar together at the end of 17x23. I’ve been thinking about it for years ... just took me a long time to finally write it. 
> 
> Visit me on [tumblr](http://the-prophet-lemonade.tumblr.com) or on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/bootheghost)! Apologies in advance for any typos - this is not beta read, even though I've literally been working on it since May lol

**i.**

& is that not desire?

to crave most a coping which un-empties

the body

— George Abraham, from [Portrait of Reality, in Fragments](https://as.vanderbilt.edu/nashvillereview/archives/14265)

* * *

“Counselor! Hey! You’re still here. I figured you’d be gone already.”

Barba looks up from his glass. The scotch is cheap but not unpleasant, nothing he wouldn’t expect from a cop bar; he still frowns as he takes another sip. Carisi stands in front of him, hands resting on the back of the neighbouring bar stool. He’s offering Barba a crooked smile. 

“I may be a lot of things, Detective, but even I don't make a point of ducking out of a funeral early,” Barba says. He tips the glass back and finishes his drink. “Besides, it’s an open bar.” 

Carisi’s smile briefly grows, but he clamps it down just as quick. His fingers drum restlessly on the back of the stool and his eyes flick over Barba’s shoulder. Barba doesn’t look back; he knows what he’s going to see. 

Detective Carisi’s fellow officers. A deep sea of navy blue uniforms and gold badges clipped to chests; telling looks and unsubtle glares; and the wealth of space between them and where Barba is leant against the bar. 

Both the seat behind him and in front of him have been empty since he sat down. The rest of the bar is packed. 

“Yeah, well,” says Carisi, and he shifts his weight in such a way that Barba knows he’s seen those same glares too. He turns his body into the space between them, shielding their conversation from prying eyes, men who would probably rather spit on Barba’s grave than attend _his_ funeral. “Wouldn’t blame you, y’know? If you wanted to leave. I reckon you’re the only one here who isn’t a cop, besides Dodds’ mom and his missus, of course.” He pauses a moment, fingers still drumming. “This seat taken?” 

Barba gestures with his glass to the empty stool. “No. Be my guest.” 

Carisi smiles at him again, and as he slides onto the stool and stretches out his long legs next to Barba’s, the way his body deflates is evident. His shoulders, held tense, seem to relax. He rests his arm on the bar, his hand near to Barba’s. He curls his fingers into his palm but then straightens them out again, his hand lying flat.

Barba tries not to stare. He’s become good at that: quick and fleeting glances, something that would never hold up in a court of law. _It’s inadmissible, your honour_ . _You can’t prove that I was looking._

Barba’s gaze flicks up from Carisi’s hand to his face. He’s lost his white gloves and his uniform hat, but his navy blue shirt is buttoned all the way up to his throat. His tie lies flat against his chest, pinched by a shiny tie-clip that looks like it’s never been worn before, but the gold buttons of his jacket are tarnished by fingerprints where they’ve been repeatedly undone, redone, and pushed aside. 

Barba, in his loosened blue tie and shirt sleeves, feels underdressed. Carisi looks good in his uniform. No-one is supposed to look good at a funeral. 

“I hope you realise you’re fraternising with the enemy,” Barba mutters. He swirls the half-formed ice cubes around the bottom of his empty glass and they clink against the sides. “I think my presence here is being humoured for the late Sergeant’s sake.” 

“What?” Carisi frowns. “No way.”

Barba levels him with a flat stare. “Don’t be obtuse, Detective. I know you have eyes.”

Carisi glances over Barba’s shoulder again and his smile falls away. Barba wonders if he’s aware of the things his colleagues must whisper when he’s left the room - ‘ _Carisi’s always licking the DA’s boot, you can’t trust that he won’t sell us out to the brass, look how he cosies up to that ADA’_ \- and whether he lets the words roll off his back, or if he truly doesn’t hear any of it.

_No_. No, he must hear it. Carisi’s not stupid. Far from it. 

But he did choose the one empty seat next to Barba in a bar full of cops. Maybe Barba’s not the only one with a suicidal streak here. 

Carisi ducks his head and rubs his index finger into the ring of condensation left behind by Barba’s glass on the bar. “Everyone’s just on edge, is all,” he says. “You lose one of your own, everyone’s gonna be a bit touchy, closing ranks, you know how it is. But no-one’s gonna try anything. You knew Mike as well as me or Liv or anyone -”

“Hm,” says Barba.

“-and if anyone _does_ try something, well.” Carisi sits up straight and levels his shoulders. His hand forms a fist on the bar and he knocks his knuckles against wood: _tap-tap_. “I’m gonna have somethin’ to say about that.”

Barba rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide the curl at the corner of his lips. “Very dramatic, Detective. Next time one of your fellow officers decides to give me a piece of their mind about prosecutorial misconduct, I’ll be sure to give you a call to defend my honour. God knows you’d do a better job of it than my protection detail.”

Carisi pouts. “I don’t mean like that -”

“I know what you mean. The next time someone threatens to push me down the stairs outside the courthouse and - what was it? Crack open my skull so that I’d bleed to death -”

Carisi visibly grimaces, shrinking back in his chair. His mouth turns down and his eyes narrow, his fist clenching again because he is, inconceivably, angry on Barba’s behalf. 

Barba finds it morbidly fascinating: the thought that, if he _were_ killed or gunned down in the street or simply turfed out of this funeral by Sergeant Dodds’ well-wishers, Carisi would put up a fight. 

Barba can count on one hand the number of people who would go to bat for him. One of them is his mother, but she’d still find time to yell at him: ‘ _what the Hell were you doing in a police bar, Rafi? You’re a mouthy cubano from the Bronx, don’t forget. It doesn’t matter how fancy your suits are, that’s all they’re ever going to see.’_

Another is Liv. And Rita makes three. Barba would call it tragic - or at least a sure sign of his inability to retain lasting friendships - if the thought of Carisi raising his voice and stepping between Barba and another officer didn’t make his jaw clench, his heart thump.

It makes Barba feel important. 

Across from him, Carisi fidgets on his stool, knocking his knuckles against the bar in a clumsy rhythm. “C’mon, don’t joke about it,” he mumbles. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“What is one supposed to do with death threats except joke about them?” Barba retorts. Carisi’s frown only deepens and Barba’s attention drifts over his shoulder to the large photograph of Mike Dodds propped up behind them. _In Memoriam_ , it reads. The taste in his mouth turns acidic. “Sorry. That’s probably not appropriate for a funeral, is it?”

Carisi shakes his head. “No, not really.”

Barba hums to himself and then turns to flag down the bartender. He opens his mouth to order another scotch and Carisi a beer, but then changes his mind. _Two tequilas. Neat._

Carisi raises his eyebrows, sitting up a little straighter. 

“You feeling alright, Counselor?” he asks, but he takes the offered glass from Barba. His nose wrinkles as he sniffs it. “If you get me drunk, I’m not gonna be able to defend your honour or anything else, for that matter. I’m a good shot, but not _that_ good. Tequila makes me woozy.” 

Barba scoffs. He wants to make a curt remark about how drinking will numb the knotted feeling that draws his chest tight and squeezes his throat like a yanked-upon tie - fear, loneliness, the weird adjacency to grief he has found himself presiding over, yet isn’t his to claim - but he keeps his mouth shut. 

He studies Carisi’s face again, and this time, he looks for longer. There are lines in Carisi’s forehead and around his eyes that Barba doesn’t recognise; they’re new, scars and war-wounds of the last few, trying days. Dark circles strung beneath his eyes and tension threaded through his jaw, wired restless energy humming beneath his skin, too tightly-wound but with nowhere to go.

And his eyes, so usually blue and guileless, are flat and grey and wounded. 

Barba knows that ache acutely. It’s that space suddenly left behind by the loss of a loved one, of a friend, and it’s always irreparably cold. Barba misses his abuelita dearly, and there are others - Eddie, Alex, Yelina - whose absence he feels just as raw. 

He wonders if Carisi feels it too. If Carisi thinks of a funny joke to share with Sergeant Dodds and turns to look for him over his shoulder and then remembers that he is gone.

Some part of Barba covets that attention for himself; that easy knowing of another person. _Friendship_ , he should call it. He’s sure Carisi and Dodds were friends. 

Some other part of him is appalled to be jealous of a dead man. 

Barba’s been lonely a while now. A want for connection that he never knows how to give, because he’s not built that way. He’s not a man made for lasting relationships and close friendships and baseball games at the weekend and shared jokes across a bar.

Carisi, on the other hand -

Barba hasn’t been able to put his finger on Carisi for a while. He’s a misnomer and Barba is far too unwilling to scrutinise what he wants from the man. He doesn’t want to identify the moment when Carisi’s enthusiasm for the law and his obnoxious excitement at being right evolved into something else. Something more, something that Barba looks forward to every day when he’s trapped within his office and quietly desperate for that grin lingering in his doorway and asking if he’s eaten lunch. 

_‘Hey, Counselor, how’s it going? You don’t look so great, think I can tempt you for a coffee and a bagel? There’s a new place just down the street I wanna try. Get some proper caffeine in ya’ and It’ll make you feel better, promise.’_

Carisi looks up and meets Barba’s stare, a curious tilt to his head as he studies Barba in heavy silence. Barba doesn’t look away. It’s a challenge and he rises to it, unsurprised that Carisi is the first to back down, ducking his head as colour splotches along his jaw. 

Carisi rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck and clears his throat, but says nothing. His shoulders slump again. 

Now, Barba feels guilty. In all their years of knowing one another, Barba’s never been the one to turn up at the precinct with kind words and an extra coffee in his hand. Carisi must know by now that he shouldn’t turn to Barba if he’s looking for sympathy, but, God damnit, he’s still holding out hope. 

_Fuck_ , Barba thinks. He’s never been good at condolences; he only knows how to make words sting. _I’m sorry for your loss_ doesn’t cut it. It sounds so fucking blithe. 

Barba clenches his jaw. 

Carisi notices. Of course he does. He pitches his voice lower. 

“You still thinking about Heredio, huh? It’s botherin’ you.”

_No, I’m not_ , Barba stews. _I’m thinking about how terrible I’ve been to you._ He doesn’t say it. That’s a scab not worth picking. 

Barba grits his teeth, turning the words over in his mouth. “It’s hard not to think about it,” he says carefully. “But we’re not here to talk about that. Come. To Sergeant Dodds. _Salud_.” 

He raises his glass to Carisi, but Carisi pulls his hand back, placing his drink down on the bar without taking a sip. 

“Counselor,” he begins, his frown far too serious, “Just so you know, we haven’t arrested Heredio yet, but we have units posted on his block ...”

The rest of the sentence goes unspoken, but Barba hears it loud. _You’re safe here. I promise._ His hand inches closer to Barba’s on the countertop. 

Barba offers him a smile. It’s meant to be sharp, but it comes out soft. Too soft. Too damn close to the truth, and the whole point of the truth, as Barba knows, is to spin it. Not surrender it to hearts-on-their-sleeves and overly honest detectives. 

“I’m not worried,” he lies, “Not in here.”

Carisi doesn’t look convinced, but he picks up his glass and clinks it against Barba’s. Tequila sloshes out over the back of Carisi’s thumb and he licks it away with a swipe of his tongue.

“Cheers,” Carisi says, and then he throws back the entire shot, grimacing as it burns its way down his throat. The sudden shift in his mood is tangible, if not forced. “Ugh. I don’t know how people can willingly drink that shit. It tastes like lighter fluid.”

“That’s because you’re meant to sip it,” Barba says archly. “Not all of us take shots like we’re still in law school, Detective.”

Carisi grins at him. It’s startlingly bright and just as sudden, uninhibited and earnest and bold enough to make Barba’s fingers clench around his glass on the way to his mouth. 

Their eyes meet. Carisi’s smile turns errant, wavering for a moment, and he laughs to himself about something secret, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Then, he turns on his stool to scan the crowd. 

“Looks like they’re gonna start the toasts,” he says, and now, he speaks too loud, too noticeable. He searches the bar for Rollins’ blonde hair, craning his neck to see over the heads of the other officers, and Barba grimaces behind his glass as his stomach twists resentfully. “Can’t let Rollins out do me. I got a lot to say about Mike, y’know.” 

He slides off the bar stool, unfolding himself to his full height. One of the buttons on his jacket is undone and the tail of his tie has twisted over, but he doesn’t seem to notice - not like Barba does. Not like Barba _always_ does. 

Carisi claps Barba on the shoulder and then strides into the crowd, cajoling Rollins and Fin with a loud, boisterous shout. And it is Barba left behind feeling resentful of no-one but himself. 

Barba clenches his jaw. Carisi’s hand leaves an imprint on him; the warmth of his fingers seeps through Barba’s shirt and lingers against his skin, the press of a thumb against the base of Barba’s throat, long after Carisi steps away. Barba can’t bring himself to move, his glass half-raised to his mouth but the taste of tequila souring on his tongue. He stares at the empty stool in front of him for a moment that stretches longer and longer until it’s indecent; until he feels the residual cold of New York in the spring creep up his spine as Carisi’s easy warmth disappears along with him. 

Alone, again. Barba should be used to it by now, but the silence is deafening.

He takes a sip of his drink. The tequila burns, and not in a good way - it’s cheap and tastes like the bottle has been open for a long time already, absorbing the tang of cheap beer that sits undisturbed in the air.

He should leave. Slip out like Carisi suggested. He’s overstayed his welcome and there’s paperwork waiting for him back at One Hogan Place; he can ring ahead and get Carmen to leave a coffee on his desk for him; his protection detail will be getting antsy, wherever they might be. The excuses line up, one after the other, like they’re waiting for an execution. 

Barba swallows heavily against the bitter taste in his mouth. He doesn’t trust his legs and if he leaves before the speeches, someone is bound to notice. For once, he doesn’t want to be noticed. 

A gap appears in the crowd and Barba finds Carisi easily, a head taller than all the other officers that surround him. 

Rollins says something cutting. Fin laughs. Carisi grins, but it doesn’t light up his face like it did before; instead, he palms at his chest, as if trying to rub away a residual hurt that lies beneath his shirt and against his sternum. His smile fades too quickly; it seems quietened. 

It seems forced. 

Barba takes another sip of his drink, swilling tequila against the backs of his teeth. A hush sweeps through the bar and Rollins is the one to begin a toast. 

“Alright, raise your glasses,” she says, holding up her drink. “A toast-”

“To the bravest cop we ever worked with,” continues Carisi, “Sergeant Michael Dodds.”

Alone at the back of the crowd, stranded on a singular bar stool, Barba raises his glass in salute. 

Stranded, abandoned, stuck in this strange and unnavigated space between two sides of the same courtroom: on his left, sat at the prosecutor’s table, the weight of Carisi's grief that no-one else but Barba seems to see; and on his right, his own withered nerves parading as defense counsel, frayed by the ever-present thought of another unmarked envelope waiting for him at the office. 

Barba can still see the inside of that elevator. He can still feel Heredio’s breath hot on his face - ‘ _abogado_ , _you won’t hear the bullet that’s coming for you’_ \- and it makes his hand tightens around his glass again. 

His chest feels tight, the urge to vomit swirling in his gut alongside the tequila and luke-warm scotch. He tries to drown it with more alcohol, as he always does. Push it down, ignore it. No need to feel it. Especially not when the good Sergeant Dodds judges him from the placard across the room, demanding to know why Barba’s here at all when his thoughts are everywhere but the deceased.

Barba’s eyes linger on Carisi as he finishes his tequila and lets the murmur of the bar wash over him. 

Somewhere, Deputy Chief Dodds begins talking; Barba cannot see him, but his deep voice carries. The man sounds wretched, his voice tethered by a singular thread and so close to breaking.

His attention drifts to Liv, then. She, too, is sat alone, the stem of a wine glass untouched between her fingertips. Her uniform is starched and uncreased, but her eyes are glassy, her stare fixed on Dodds’ back. 

A lump forms in Barba’s throat.

Loss and grief haunt Liv’s steps more often than not. A shadow hangs over the 16th Precinct and all it’s bleeding-heart detectives who insist on going the extra mile when none of their brothers-in-blue would do the same for them. It feels unfair. 

Liv is good people.

And Barba is not the sort of person who wishes he could fix a broken heart - he knows what he is and isn’t capable of - but he wishes that he could spare her from the hurting. He wishes for Liv to return a smile the next time she catches his eye. For Rollins and Fin not to have to drown their sorrows in beer; and for Carisi to unfold himself out of the perpetual slump that drags his shoulders down. 

Barba likens the ache in his chest to an untended bruise; it doesn’t hurt, not until he jabs his finger into it and prods it with morbid curiosity. 

And when he prods it, he sees the ripple of pain pass across every other face but his, and he wonders when it was that he shut himself off from feeling that too. 

_Ironic_ , he thinks, as someone’s sharp elbow hits his back and he flinches, hand gripping his empty glass so tight it might shatter. He waits - half-expecting a brash apology and half-expecting Heredio muttering in his ear, telling him how the next sharp shove will be a knife - but it passes, and Barba exhales slowly.

He glances out the window, drawn to the deep grey colour of the sky as clouds roll in over the city. It’s going to rain. He didn’t bring an umbrella and now the thought of waiting outside for an Uber as his dress shoes get wet sounds about as depressing as anything else.

He watches passersby on the sidewalk, collars turned up against the cold, heads bowed low, obscuring their faces. Any one of them could be Heredio; any one of them could be pacing outside the bar, waiting for Barba to emerge, to stick a bullet in him like was done to Sergeant Dodds. 

A weight settles heavily inside Barba’s chest. For a day like today, it seems more than appropriate. 

* * *

“Hey, Counselor, you alright?” 

Carisi’s voice curves around Barba as he emerges from the crowd. He grips the back of Barba’s bar stool, his knuckles knocking against Barba’s spine, and for a moment, he completely cages Barba against the edge of the bar.

It passes quickly. 

Barba drags his attention from the window and looks Carisi up and down. He’s found his white gloves again and his uniform hat is tucked beneath his arm; it looks like someone else has taken the time to straighten his tie for him. 

“Barba?”

Carisi slides back into his previously-vacated barstool, all long legs and an uncertain smile, folding himself up until his knees nudge Barba’s thigh. He sets the glass in his hand on the bar and ducks his head to intercept Barba’s line of sight. 

“Hey, you alright?” His voice drops and he leans a little closer, a frown carving out the newly-forming lines that mark his forehead. “You look like you’re thinking about something real hard.”

Barba blinks and shakes his head, reaching for his glass but remembering too late that he’s already drained it. He sighs heavily, closing his eyes, and rubs at the bridge of his nose. 

When he opens his eyes again, Carisi is still there. 

“You look kinda pale,” Carisi says. “You sure you don’t wanna get out of here? I don’t mind ducking out early.”

“I’m fine,” Barba sighs. He rubs absently at his chest, his hand sliding beneath his tie, but Carisi’s eyes follow, as they always do. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but Barba holds up his hand, nodding at Carisi’s half-empty drink. 

“Refill?” he asks, twisting to call the bartender before Carisi can object. “What are you drinking? Gin? Another tequila?”

Carisi lifts his glass, the ice-cubes clinking. “‘S just water, actually,” he says, and then he gulps down the last mouthfuls, giving Barba an unobstructed view of his throat and the way it moves as he swallows. His skin is whiter than normal against the dark blue of his uniform. 

The scotch in Barba’s belly lies heavy. He deliberately averts his gaze, finding rain pelting against the window outside.

“You’re not drinking anymore?” he asks, acerbic, like an accusation. “What’s the point of a funeral if not to drink oneself into misery and then feel worse about it in the morning?”

Carisi smiles a half-smile and laughs below his breath. He rotates his empty glass in his hand, inspecting the way the light refracts from the thumb-printed perspex. Then, he shrugs.

“Drove here from the precinct,” he says simply, but colour that creeps into his face. “I don’t wanna leave my car here overnight if I drink too much and I _definitely_ don’t want the hangover tomorrow ‘cus I got the early shift. Besides … now I can offer you a ride home.”

“I was going to call an Uber,” Barba says automatically. Then, he adds, “If you’re that committed to teetotalism, then I’m sure Liv or Rollins would much better appreciate a lift. I’ve managed this long without a personal chauffeur.” 

“Yeah, but no-one’s leaving death threats on Liv or Amanda’s desks right now,” says Carisi. The ice in his glass is meltwater now, warmed by the span of his large hand. “Least as far as I know.”

The bartender returns with a new glass of scotch, sliding it towards Barba’s elbow. Barba picks it up without blinking.

“Maybe they just haven’t told you,” he says pointedly. It’s a low blow, and he knows it is, because Carisi’s face pinches in the middle and he levels Barba with a glare.

“No,” replies Carisi, “They would tell me if something like that happened. They wouldn’t keep it secret from the people who care about them.”

Barba narrows his eyes and glares at Carisi. Carisi’s jaw juts out and his mouth flattens into a thin, determined line, and Barba is reminded that, sometimes, he’s not the most stubborn man in the room.

Barba sighs heavily and shakes his head. 

“Let’s not do this here,” he mutters. _Let’s not do this at all._ “A funeral is no place for an argument.”

“I dunno about that, Counselor,” Carisi shrugs. “You haven’t been to a funeral with my family before. It’s the perfect place to start a fight. My sister Gina broke it off with her third fiancé at my great aunt’s wake last year, y’know.”

“I didn’t know,” Barba says, raising an eyebrow. “And nor do I _want_ to know.”

Carisi laughs with a snort, and then he shifts forward on his barstool, the metal legs scraping on the floor. 

Barba fixes Carisi with a pointed look. He’s reminded of the way Carisi always perches on the corner of his desk: the curve of his body invading Barba’s space, the smell of his not-terrible aftershave winning out against cheap filter coffee, the annoyed huffs of breath that Barba always hears but tries to ignore. 

But the look Carisi is giving him now is different. Not resigned to Barba’s teasing, but not angry that Barba refuses to talk about what Carisi clearly wants to hear. 

_‘Someone threatened your life and you didn’t tell us?’_

_‘I didn’t think it was any of your immediate business, Detective.’_

Barba remembers that day in his office well: Carisi balanced on his desk and Rollins pacing back and forth in front, her hands on her hips as Barba confessed to his 3AM cold calls in his best performance as a hostile witness. He remembers Rollins’ ducking out to take a phone call from Liv - and how Barba’s eyes had followed her, because it meant not looking at Carisi - until she had returned with the news that Dodds was in trouble.

And now, suddenly, they’re here and Dodds is in the ground and Barba’s lost the ability to differentiate one day from the next, always looking over his shoulder and hardly sleeping, but Carisi -

Carisi’s eyes have softened, and that disappointment is now something far more tender and telling, and Barba can’t pinpoint when that happened, but it feels like a while ago. 

“C’mon, Counselor, just let me do this,” Carisi pleads, his smile wavering. “Lemme take you home. I’ll sleep better knowing that you got back safe. Let me do _something_ right.”

Barba blinks himself back into reality. “What do you mean by that?”

“By what?”

“‘Let you do something right’. What does that mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything.” Carisi waves his hand around, but doesn’t manage to grab hold of what he wants to say. “I just ... wanna do something nice for a friend, ‘s all.”

_Lie._

Barba almost hesitates. “Friend?”

“Yeah,” Carisi exhales. “Yeah.”

“Hm,” says Barba. “Alright, Detective. You can drive me home on one condition.” 

“Yeah?” Carisi asks hopefully. “Name it.”

“No more perjury on the stand.”

Carisi’s face is reddening again. “This isn’t exactly a courtroom, Counselor.”

Barba makes a point of looking around. “I’m not so sure. The judgement is rolling off your peers in waves.”

“You sure I can’t just buy you another scotch and call it even?”

Barba raises his eyebrows expectantly and settles back on his barstool. He tucks two fingers behind the knot of his tie and tugs it loose, flicking open the top button of his shirt. If they were in the office - if they were _alone_ in the office - he would sink back in his chair and throw his feet up on the desk, crossed at the ankle. 

Instead, he just gestures with his drink as if to say _go on_. 

_Tell me what you meant._

Carisi rolls his eyes, glancing over his shoulder towards where Fin and Rollins have descended on Liv and Deputy Chief Dodds. They’re far enough a way that they won’t hear a word.

Still, he hesitates.

“I mean … with Dodds,” he begins, swallowing thickly. He reaches up and rubs absently at that spot on his chest again, _the ache_ , feeling out the shape of a Saint’s medal beneath his shirt. “It’s like - that day ... that shoulda been me, y’know? Liv asked me to go with her to collect Mrs Munson, but Dodds said he’d do it, he’d go instead. But it shoulda been me.” 

“You can’t honestly blame yourself for that,” says Barba. “You did nothing wrong.”

“It’s not that, it’s just - I shoulda insisted. Yeah, he’s my Sergeant and all, but it was his last day on the squad. I shoulda argued - you know how my mouth gets me in trouble, Counselor. I shoulda gone. Maybe it would’ve ended with a bullet in my gut, but maybe it wouldn’t’ve. Maybe I would’ve done something different and Mike would be … I’ll never know. None of us will. So it sure _feels_ like I did something wrong.”

Barba sighs quietly. “Carisi …” 

He understands the weight on Carisi’s shoulders then. Carisi feels powerless. He needs to do good; he needs to appease that innate self-sacrificing desire of his to protect people, no matter the personal cost.

He wants to spare someone else from pain.

And if he can do that by driving Barba home and seeing him safely to his front door, then - 

“You didn’t fail Dodds,” Barba murmurs, hidden behind the rim of his glass. “You know that.”

“Huh?”

“You didn’t fail Dodds,” Barba repeats. “You did nothing wrong and you shouldn’t think that you did. _Detective_.”

Carisi leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands. “But it’s part of it, isn’t it? Thinking about all the stuff you could’ve done different. Wondering what else you won’t know you could’ve done different ‘til it’s too late.”

“Well,” Barba says darkly, “I, for one, am I glad you didn’t go on that call. If this were your funeral, they might force me to make a speech and I’m not very good at nice words.”

That makes Carisi laugh, loud enough to turn a few heads. “Gee, Counselor, you ever thought about a career in writing ‘ _I’m sorry for your loss_ ’ greeting cards? I think you’d be great at it.”

Barba feels himself smirk. “Very funny, Detective. That’s usually my line.”

Detective Rollins appears at Carisi’s shoulder, drawn by the sound of his bright laughter. Barba hadn’t noticed her approach, but he leans back in his chair and raises his glass to cover his mouth again, watching her over the lip of it. 

“You know you’re not meant to have fun at a funeral, right?” Rollins says, buffing Carisi on the arm with her clenched fist. She looks across at Barba. “He bugging you, Counselor?”

“No more than usual,” Barba admits. 

Rollins frowns, unconvinced, but turns back to Carisi.

“Listen, I’m off. I gotta relieve the sitter.”

“Yeah? You gonna be alright?” Carisi asks, perking up in his seat. “How you getting back?”

Rollins’ attention flicks between Carisi and Barba. Maybe she _has_ noticed Carisi’s slumped shoulders after all, and maybe she doesn’t trust Barba not to make it worse with some well-timed jabs. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she says. “Fin’s gonna give me a ride. I wanna get home before Jesse’s bedtime, so ...”

Carisi smiles broadly. “Give her a goodnight kiss from me, then,” he beams. “And text me when you’re home, just so I know.”

Rollins rolls her eyes, but she knocks him on the shoulder again for good measure. “Take it easy,” she says, looking pointedly at his glass. “Y'all have fun. But not too much fun. Still a funeral. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Night, Amanda,” Carisi says, “And it’s water, I swear!” 

* * *

“Wait here,” Carisi says, as he and Barba stand in the doorway of the bar and peer out into the rain. “I’ll get the car and bring it ‘round so you don’t have’ta get wet.” 

Barba says nothing and reaches into his coat pocket for his Blackberry. Carisi hesitates a moment, watching as Barba opens up his emails, and then he shoves his uniform hat on his head, and with an arm shielding his eyes, runs out into the rain.

The cold quickly dawns on Barba without Carisi beside him to block the wind. He scrolls through a few emails - he told Carmen to post an out-of-office notice for the afternoon, but God knows defense attorneys don’t care for working hours when they want something - and then locks his phone, tucking it back into his pocket. He turns up the collar of his coat and shrinks down into it, grimacing as the rain cuts into the side of his face. 

It’s meant to be May soon. New York weather has some fucking nerve. 

Behind him, a pair of officers bundle out of the bar, their laughter cut short by either rain or the sight of Barba scowling on the sidewalk. Barba turns away from them, clenching his jaw as he stares down into the puddles pooling at his feet, but he hears their whispers, his own name unmistakable on their lips as they hunch their shoulders and disappear down the street.

He listens to the slap of their uniform shoes on the sidewalk until the howl of the wind swallows it up, and then he lets his shoulders sag. 

A car pulls up to the curb, wheels splattering both the sidewalk and Barba’s shoes with rainwater. The driver leans across the passenger seats and pushes open the door, and Barba is met with the cloying smell of pine-scented air freshener.

“Going my way, Counselor?” Carisi grins as he leans his elbow against the passenger headrest and waggles his eyebrows.

Barba rolls his eyes and bundles into the front seat. “You should be so lucky.”

Carisi bites back his smile as he adjusts the heater to blow hot air towards Barba’s feet. He twists the rearview mirror, pulls up the parking brake, and taps out a beat on the steering wheel as he pulls back out into the busy New York traffic.

The rain is heavy, hissing against the windscreen, tinny on the hood of the car. Barba settles into the worn-leather of the seat and lets his temple rest against the window, seeking out the few, thin patches of grey sky that appear and disappear between highrises. Against his cheek, the cold of the glass is grounding, and the vastness of a lonely city is a familiarity worth getting lost in. 

On his other side, there is only warmth. The space between him and Carisi is not so large. 

Eventually, the bar vanishes behind them in a mist of rain spat up by the tires. Carisi’s tapping doesn’t last for long; his knuckles clench around the steering wheel as he squints through the windshield, focused intently on the road, and Barba is not sure if he’s glad for the silence. He listens to the downpour; to the slap of the wipers on the window; to the starched rustle of Carisi’s dress uniform as he kneads at his thigh as they wait at an intersection for the lights to change from red to green.

Barba’s eyes drift to the wing mirror. In the reflection, he watches a black sedan follow them through three more crossings before turning off. Barba sinks lower in his seat and extracts his Blackberry again, if only for something to do with his hands that isn’t picking the threads of his coat apart one by one. 

It’s habit. It’s been habit for a while, counting each beat of his pulse and stealing glances in rearview mirrors and refusing to get into a car until he’s saved a picture of the license plate to his phone, just in case. 

_Just in case_.

What a wretched way to live. 

An email arrives in his inbox from Rita. It has no subject line and no attachments, so he knows it’s not business; when he clicks to open it, the message is short and simple. 

  
  


From: calhounr@cmllc.org

Date: April 26th 2016, 08:30 PM

Subject: none

_Rafael,_

_I was very displeased to hear from John, of all people, that you have acquired yourself a protection detail, which I’m sure you’re enjoying immensely. I’d love to hear what choice words you had for Lieutenant Benson on the subject, perhaps over drinks tonight? My treat._

_You can leave whichever detective you have snapping at your heels at the door._

_Rita_

Rita Calhoun, Esq., J.D.

Attorney-at-Law, Criminal Defense

Cranston & Merck, LLC

  
  


Barba rolls his eyes and taps out a curt response - _busy, let’s reschedule_ \- but doesn’t press send. He can still taste the unpleasant mix of scotch and tequila on the backs of his teeth, and the thought of venturing out into the city again to meet Rita makes his stomach churn. 

He makes a mental note to ask Carmen to amend his calendar for the rest of the week. If he has no free evenings to spare for gossiping, Rita won’t be able to guilt-trip him into forced socialisation. It’s a tried-and-tested method for avoiding her. 

Beside him, Carisi draws in a deep breath, the sort that preludes a breaking silence. Barba glances at him from the corner of his eye, but Carisi doesn’t move, doesn’t speak at all, his throat moving as he swallows. 

A minute passes, and then two. The rain lashes harder against the windscreen, and Barba angles himself away from the door.

He locks his phone, the underside of his jaw reflected unflatteringly in the black screen, and then he raises an eyebrow. 

“Something on your mind, Detective?”

“Nah. Nah, it’s nothing, I was just thinking,” Carisi says immediately. “Today really sucked.”

“Insightful as ever.”

“Hey. That’s not what I mean. I mean, today, the last two weeks, this whole case …” Carisi’s mouth flattens into a hard line as he stares at the road ahead. “It’s just rough, y’know? Admitting that everything is not okay. That _you’re_ not okay, even if you got a lotta practice in sayin’ that you are. And I was just thinkin’-”

“Carisi,” Barba warns, but Carisi barrels on.

“I wanna talk about it, y’know,” he insists. Barba’s eyes are drawn to Carisi’s hands on the steering wheel, how his knuckles tense and flex beneath his gloves and the white fabric strains. “The death threats, I mean. Why you didn’t say anything.”

“Of course you do,” Barba mutters. “I tell you that I don’t want to have this argument, so you go ahead and make it your mission-” 

“I just don’t get why you don’t wanna talk about it,” Carisi interrupts. “Especially after today, especially after we’ve seen what can - y’know - _happen_ …”

“This is entirely different -”

“Is it?”

Barba glares at him, but Carisi’s focus doesn’t shift from the road. He moves one hand from the steering wheel and back to his leg, working the heel of his palm into his thigh. 

_A nervous tick_ , Barba thinks, eyes narrowing. _Or something else ..._

“Forgive me for being unwilling to discuss the threats on my life,” Barba says, well aware of the bite to his words, “You think I enjoy having to ask permission from my protection detail to fetch myself a coffee from the cart on the corner of the block every morning? Or needing a detective to drive me home because I’m worried that his guilty conscience might actually kill him if I refuse?”

Another low blow. Barba’s good at those. But he still watches in fascination as Carisi bites the inside of his cheek, scowls, and sits up straighter in his seat, levelling his shoulders and puffing out his chest. 

“That’s not fair,” Carisi says.

“None of this is fair, Detective. It’s as you just said: _today sucked_ . It all _sucks_. I don’t see how talking about any of it is going to make it better, no matter the wealth of reassurances I’m sure you can give me.”

Carisi continues to chew at his cheek, stewing in silence, but the retort Barba expects never comes. It throws him off balance. 

Barba sighs. He glances back down at his phone in his lap and then tucks it back into his pocket, out of sight, before pinching the bridge of his nose, aware, now, of a migraine forming in his temples. 

“Why,” he begins, sounding tired even to his own ears, “do you take it so personally?”

_Why do you try so damn hard to get close to me? Why do you want to be my friend?_

Carisi’s face colours, the flush disappearing down his throat and beneath the collar of his uniform. 

“C’mon, Counselor,” he says quietly, “You know why.” 

Barba huffs and leans back in his seat, staring pointedly at the clock on the dashboard as it ticks over another hour. The night is creeping in and Barba is aware of the empty ache in his stomach that will likely be filled by shitty takeout, alone in his apartment.

_You know why._

Outside, New York begins to blur as the windscreen wipers beat a path through the downpour. Bright lights refract in the water, splitting into a hundred different shades of grey, while puddles in the road turn black and depthless where New York’s neon facade trickles into the storm drains.

He can feel the questioning flicker of Carisi’s eyes on the side of his face at every red light. Some part of him is afraid of looking back at the Detective and seeing the real answer to the question that still hangs in the space between them, and so he folds his arms across his chest and slumps down into his seat.

Barba’s apartment block is a stout grey building, tucked between two much-taller skyscrapers that make it impossible to see from any point along the street. The doorman knows his name, if only because of the obscure hours he keeps, but Barba knows very few of his neighbours, and that’s through no fault but his own.

He has to wonder what they think of the new police presence stalking the halls of the building: both the uniformed officer lurking in the lobby and the other who sits outside the front door and tries not to fall asleep on watch. 

Carisi pulls up against the curb and cuts the engine. He unclips his seatbelt and then turns to face Barba, his face an open book. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

It makes Barba scoff.

“There’s no need to apologise,” he says. “What are you even sorry for? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Well, I’ve clearly done something ‘cus you were looking at me like you wanna bite my head off just now,” Carisi replies. He scrubs his hand down his face and palms at his jaw. “Listen, I should get going. Me and Amanda are gonna join the search for Heredio tomorrow morning, so I should probably try and get a few hours sleep tonight. I guess I’ll call you if we find something ...”

Carisi trails off, but his focus falls on Barba. His eyes trail down the length of Barba’s coat sleeve to his hand, to Barba’s fingers drumming restlessly against his thigh where he’s eager for the familiar weight of his phone in his palm, and then up again, following the line of Barba’s tie, lingering on the undone button at his throat.

Carisi chews his lower lip between his teeth. A small frown forms between his brows. 

It’s a lot. A lot more than Barba is prepared to handle; the look on Carisi’s face is half desperate and half hopeful, and he studies Barba likes he’s afraid he’s not going to see him again. Like he’s committing Barba to memory. 

The sudden silence is swamping, but the night sucks the heat from the car, a chill crawling up the back of Barba’s neck. Rain taps on the window, a huff of cool breath behind his ear, and Barba draws his coat tighter around him.

He refuses to reach for the passenger door handle. 

The brake lights of a passing car refract through the wet windscreen and stripe across Carisi’s face, sharp across his cheekbones. As he’s plunged into colour, darkness swamps the passenger seat.

_Well, there’s your red fucking flag_ , Barba tells himself. He pulls his eyes away from Carisi, watching as shadows lengthen across his lap and submerge his feet in the darkness of the footwell. 

For a moment, he thinks about asking Carisi plainly, _what is it that you want exactly? What is it that you want from me,_ if only to force Carisi to say it, the truth they’ve both been circling for a while now. Say it, or duck his head and turn the key in the ignition and tell Barba to get out of the car. Either would suffice. 

A definite answer or a definitive act. 

Instead, Carisi nods his chin towards the door of Barba’s building where an officer is sheltering from the rain, her shoulders hunched up to her ears. 

“Is that one of your unis?” he asks with a gesture of his hand. “That's all they gave you? Just one posted on the front door?” He twists around in his seat, squinting through the driver’s window, but the bright lights of a passing car briefly blind him. “There’s supposed to be a squad car watching your block, but I don’t see it …”

“One officer haunting my every step is enough, thank you, Carisi,” Barba interrupts. “And I’m sure she’s got better places to be than my doorstep. I certainly do.”

Carisi rolls his eyes. “I’m not gonna have this argument with you again, _Barba_ ,” he says, tapping a beat against the steering wheel again. Barba is in half a mind to tell him to _cut it out_ , but Carisi continues on. “It’s a protective detail, not house arrest. It’s meant to help you sleep better at night.”

Barba holds his tongue. He wants to say something abrasive, something about how _none of this_ has allowed him to sleep better. He trusts this officer to protect him about as far as she could throw him, which is to say _not far at all_. She might have friends who are Correctional Officers and knew Gary Munson, or she could share a union rep with the three cops he indicted in the Terrence Reynolds case. She might just hate him because he’s a lawyer with a nice apartment and nice clothes and a nice corner office that overlooks a park that flowers in spring, and she’s been tasked with protecting a man who doesn’t want to be protected. 

Barba wouldn’t know which it was until too late. 

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, unable to stop himself from reaching into his pocket and grabbing his phone. He taps the home button with his thumb, glancing at the stack of unread notifications that never give him a moment’s peace, but lets the screen fade to black. He feels Carisi’s eyes drilling into his hand, and the heat of his stare has Barba fighting a flinch. 

“I can put a word in with the Lieu and get the officer switched if it’s not working out,” Carisi offers, his words measured and cautious, like he’s waiting for Barba to snap at him. He leans closer, across the console between them, ducking his head to try and catch Barba’s eye. “But you’re gonna have to give a good reason. Not liking the way she looks at you is not gonna be enough.”

“If I took issue with the way New York’s finest _looked at me_ , I’d have much bigger problems.” Barba steals another glance at the uni and finds her scrolling through her phone, her hat drawn down low over her eyes and her shoulders hunched, oblivious to Barba and Carisi and their unmarked car watching her from across the street. “I’m used to being glared at.”

“ _I_ don’t glare at you.”

Barba grips his Blackberry tightly between his hands. 

“No,” he says slowly, “No, you don’t.” 

_No, you look at me very differently._

He looks back at Carisi as Carisi’s face lights up with a smile, small and secretive, but bright - brighter than any other smile Barba has seen on his face in days - tucked into the corner of his mouth. 

“Come up for a nightcap,” Barba says before he can think better of it. His own face is warm; his chest feels tight, his heart traitorously loud. All it takes is one more look out into the dark, into the rain and whatever else might be waiting out there for him, to sure up his resolve. “I suspect I have a few beers in the fridge, if scotch isn’t your thing.”

Carisi hesitates. His hand grips the steering wheel, his thumb pausing in its briefly-nervous beat. The rain grows louder against the window.

“I won’t be able to drive home.”

“Coffee, then. Or tea,” Barba amends. “But I don’t drink beer and they’ll only go to waste if you don’t drink them. I have a couch too. You might just about fit on it if you need to stay the night.” 

Barba has made a name for himself in being bold - in the office, in the courtroom, in the sharpness of his tongue - but this is different. 

This time, he can’t hold his chin aloft and stare down a defendant until he cracks; this time, he can’t even look Carisi in the eye.

Barba clenches his jaw, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He taps at his Blackberry, listening to the sound of Carisi’s uniform rustle. He sees Carisi open his mouth to say something, but then change his mind, wetting his lower lip with his tongue, then chewing it with his teeth. He feels Carisi’s eyes dip down, catching somewhere around Barba’s throat, lingering on the loosened knot of his tie.

Barba doesn’t look up. He scrolls through his inbox and opens the email from Rita again, but now, he can’t make it past the first line. 

“Yeah,” says Carisi, and it’s so quiet at first that it could easily be mistaken for a huff of breath. “Yeah, okay. Sure. I can stay a bit.” A pause. He peels off his gloves and stuffs them into his pocket. It feels significant, but Barba’s not sure why; something about bare hands, bare fingerprints, trace evidence. “But only if you’re sure, Counselor.”

Barba looks at him sharply. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sure.”

There’s colour in Carisi’s cheeks, delicate and at-odds with the stiff navy blue of his collar and the badge on his chest and the gun on his hip. His smile grows, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and then he twists around in his seat and peers into the back of the car.

“I don’t have an umbrella,” he says, “Wasn’t meant to rain today. You alright to make a run for it?”

Barba scoffs and reaches for the door, but Carisi’s hand on his forearm stops him cold. 

With his other hand, Carisi holds out his uniform hat.

Barba narrows his eyes. “I’m not wearing that.”

“It’ll keep you dry,” Carisi offers, the corner of his mouth lifting, his smile turning crooked. “You don’t have to wear it, just hold it above your head.”

“You think I’m really that vain that I care about my hair getting wet?”

Carisi shrugs his shoulders. Dimples form around his mouth, a pair of parentheses bracketing an unspoken kindness. “You really want me to answer that, Counselor?”

Barba exhales sharply through his nose and snatches Carisi’s hat. He doesn’t look back as he steps out into the rain. 

* * *

**ii.**

a boy i find pretty presses his tongue

against my front teeth & i forget

myself

  
  


— George Abraham, from Portrait of Reality, in Fragments

* * *

The ride up to Barba’s apartment is silent; it’s a nice building, but not nice enough for there to be music in the elevator, so Barba listens to the hum of electricity below their feet and tries to ignore the casual brush of Carisi’s shoulder against his that has all the finesse and subtlety of an anchor. 

The smell of rain and petrichor and wet gelled hair is suspended in the small space between them. Beneath it lingers faded aftershave - not cheap, but not expensive either - now diluted enough that Barba has to inhale deeply to find the peppery notes of juniper.

That’s new. He’s not smelled it on Carisi before, too nice to be a gift picked out by a less-than-discerning family member. _Maybe a treat for himself ..._

Barba’s coat is rain-damp; his skin is cold. The scotch in his belly has lost its warmth. He’s not drunk, but he’s not making good decisions either, and he clenches Carisi’s hat in his fist, half-wishing he could shove it into Carisi’s chest and half-wishing he could throw it to the ground and stalk out through the doors because his skin is prickling and he hates it.

He does neither.

But he is aware of every one of Carisi’s stolen glances; he feels them across the side of his face as he keeps his attention fixed on the elevator doors. He watches the numbers climb and as soon as the elevator opens on his floor, he strides out, expecting Carisi to be on his heels. 

He says nothing, but neither does Carisi, and the quiet has Barba fumbling for his keys in front of his apartment door.

Carisi exhales behind him, a fraction too close as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, his hands shoved deep into his uniform pockets. 

A hot flush trickles down the back of Barba’s neck. 

There’s a line, here, and Barba is the one who has invited the Detective to cross it: a very important divide between their personal and professional lives, and perhaps it doesn’t run as deep as Barba once hoped. He finds himself wondering if he left dishes in the sink this morning, another unwashed coffee cup on the kitchen sideboard. Did he leave paperwork scattered across the coffee table? Did he make his bed?

_Why does he care?_

He pushes open the door and holds it for Carisi, who simply hums as he steps into Barba’s space, flicking on the light switch. Barba shuts the door behind them and shrugs out of his coat, hanging Carisi’s hat on the coat hook too, before sliding the deadbolt across the door and turning the latch. He tests the door for good measure and it doesn’t budge. He feels himself decompress. 

Carisi wanders further into the room, an open-plan kitchen-diner with real oak fixtures, a dining table inherited from his abuelita, and Barba’s poor excuse for a living space tucked into one corner. Two large windows look out onto the fire escape, and below, the street, where they will be able to see Carisi’s car parked against the curb. 

“Nice place,” Carisi remarks, his attention drifting from the paperwork strewn across the dining table to the stacks of old Harvard textbooks on Barba’s bookshelf. He steps closer to inspect Barba’s immaculately-kept copy of _Wharton’s Criminal Law_. It’s a first edition. Carisi lets out a low whistle; he’s too predictable. “Rent must be steep.”

Barba rolls his eyes. “More than you earn in a month, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in,” Carisi laughs, “Some of us have tuition still to pay off, y’know. We only get to _dream_ about living in the Upper West Side and buying our books brand new.” 

Barba scoffs and it makes Carisi turn back to him with a grin, big and blinding, his mouth framed again by dimples. The rain has freed his hair of product; it’s wavy now, well-tousled as if swept through by determined fingers. Gold in the light but silver at his temples. 

His uniform is darkened, speckled by rain on his sleeves, drenched across the breadth of his shoulders. His shoes, shiny, and the badge on his chest, illuminated in yellow by the shitty fluorescent bulb above their heads. 

He looks rumpled, intimate, found standing in the middle of Barba’s living room with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched in a moment of semi-consciousness only ever caught after escaping a rain storm not quite intact.

He looks like a mistake Barba can all too easily imagine himself making.

“Come,” Barba says brusquely, and he pushes past Carisi towards the kitchen. “Drink.” 

* * *

Barba pours himself three fingers of scotch, and while it rests he reaches into the back of the fridge for a bottle of beer. There are two left, but he didn’t buy them and he can’t account for quality, marooned as they were by Rita, the last time she was here to visit. 

He hands the beer to Carisi, and as he tries to remember the last time he saw his bottle opener, Carisi knocks the neck of the bottle against the counter top and the cap pops right off.

“Nice party trick,” Barba remarks, collecting his scotch and leaning back against the dishwasher. “I see night school has taught you _some_ useful life skills.”

“Yeah, well,” Carisi smiles, rolling the bottle cap across the backs of his knuckles. “Just in case both the cop thing _and_ the lawyer thing don’t work out, I can still become a pretty mediocre bartender. Always good to have back-up plans.” 

Barba smirks behind his glass, raising it to his mouth but not taking a drink. He lets the cold edge of the glass rest against his lower lip; he inhales the strong, oaky smell of scotch and it burns the inside of his nose. 

Carisi rests against the counter opposite, stretching out his long legs. The kitchen is narrow; once again, he impedes on Barba’s space. 

Barba drags his eyes back up the length of Carisi’s body. “So, which was the original back-up plan?” he asks. 

“Huh?”

“Law school or SVU. Which was the original back-up plan?” 

Carisi frowns, taking a slow and pronounced sip of his beer, as if waiting for a punchline at his expense - but there isn’t one. Barba means the question genuinely. He wants to know.

“Detective?”

“I dunno,” Carisi says, and he shrugs his shoulders bashfully, “Not all of us are as decisive as you, Counselor. I bet you knew you wanted to be a prosecutor as soon as you could read.”

“Not quite,” Barba says. He considers his glass a moment. “I wanted to be on Broadway. My mother had a large LP collection when I was a child and she often left her record player unattended. I was the star of many living room productions.” 

“Oh yeah? So, what you waited ‘til middle school before you set your sights on somethin’ less ambitious?”

“Middle school? No,” Barba scoffs, “I decided I was going to be a lawyer when I was eight.” 

Carisi laughs, his tongue licking over his teeth before he takes another drink. 

“I wish that was me,” he admits, “Having that drive, knowing exactly what I wanted to be. Y’know, I was thinking about joining the priesthood right up until I was eighteen? Before that, I was gonna be a chef.” 

“I’m not sure you’d pull off a cassock as well as you do the uniform,” Barba murmurs, and Carisi’s next sip of beer is more like a gulp. Barba studies the pleasant flush that stretches across Carisi’s cheeks like one would a reluctant witness in a courtroom. “Why did you decide to become a cop?”

Carisi shrugs. “I wanted to help people.” 

There’s nothing Barba can say to that; it’s a truth both honest and unshakeable, and in an instant, Barba understands everything there is to know about the man standing slouched in his kitchen. 

His mouth feels dry; he licks his lips and tries to swallow, but it draws Carisi’s attention like a spotlight. 

Carisi's attention has _always_ been like a spotlight; bright, demanding, and singular in the way he looks at Barba like he’s the only person in the room. 

Barba basks in it. In the squadroom, in his office, on the front steps of the courthouse as Barba marches towards his Uber and Carisi strives to keep pace, talking a mile a minute as if he’s afraid he won’t get all his words out in time.

Barba likes being looked at. He likes being envied too. He likes being admired and hero-worshipped and he likes the way it feels to have Carisi watching from from the doorway of his office, a cup of coffee in either hand, an excuse for why he didn’t knock.

He likes all that. He _knows_ all that. 

_This_ is different. Here, now, Carisi’s eyes flick from Barba’s face to the floor, and then back again. 

There’s an edge to him tonight, beyond the worry and beyond the grief. It’s not a nervous twitch that keeps Carisi from standing still, and nor is it the belligerent pride in his voice when he asks “ _am I right, Counselor?_ ” when they’re together in the bullpen.

It’s a sense of anticipation. The air is thick with it. 

_A precariousness_ , Barba decides, _that he could so easily push off balance with just one well-placed word_. 

Barba wonders what that word might be. 

“You want to help people,” Barba says slowly, rolling the words around in his mouth with the taste of scotch. “That’s very noble, Detective.” 

Carisi digs his thumbnail under the label of his beer bottle, shrugging again. “Seemed about as good a reason as any.” He sighs then, heavily, setting his bottle down and curling both hands over the edge of the counter. He tilts his head back and looks up at the ceiling, squinting against the light. “Didn’t really work out though, did it?”

“I didn’t invite you up here to listen to you mope about something you played no part in, Detective,” Barba says sternly. “But I’ll say it again, for posterity’s sake. Sergeant Dodds’ death is not on you. God knows It’s on a lot of people, but it’s _not on you_. You can’t be expected to protect everybody.”

“But I gotta try,” Carisi insists. “I gotta try. That’s the whole point of the job. Or it’s supposed to be.” 

Barba presses his lips into a tight line, and pushes away from the dishwasher to grab Carisi’s beer. He heads into the living room, setting both the beer and his scotch on the coffee table, and then sinks down onto the sofa, spreading his arm along the spine. 

He looks back at Carisi and tilts his head - _what are you waiting for, an invitation?_ \- and it’s only then that Carisi follows Barba out of the kitchen, springing into life as if scalded on something hot. 

“Idealism is a dangerous game,” Barba remarks, tracking Carisi across the room. “It can become pretty isolating. Realism is a safer bet.”

Carisi swipes his beer from the table and flops onto the couch next to Barba. His uniform shirt has come untucked from his belt, but Barba decides not to comment on it. 

Instead, Barba continues, “But I’ve never lost a colleague. I can’t begin to say I know what it’s like.” 

Carisi hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t say anything. He frowns as he scratches at the residue left behind by the label on his bottle, and Barba is caught by the arch of his long fingers against the coloured glass.

He swallows thickly, and then asks, words meticulous and measured, “Has Liv given you time off? Any of you?”

Carisi shakes his head. “Nah. Nah, you know how understaffed we are. I know she wanted to, but … we can’t. And it’s kinda better that way, gives us something to take our minds off it, keep us busy. Work, I mean. ‘Least for me.”

“Have you talked to Fin and Rollins about it?”

“Not really. I don’t think they _want_ to talk about it much and I don’t really blame them, if I’m honest. It’s not great locker room talk.” 

“What about a shrink?”

Carisi’s hand stills around his beer bottle, and he turns to look at Barba curiously. Likely, he sees a hypocrite. He doesn’t know that Liv slipped Barba the card for her therapist when she and Barba met yesterday in her office, but there’s something in Carisi’s eyes that suggests he knows that Barba has no intention of calling and scheduling an appointment.

_To talk about what?_ Barba thinks. _Someone wanting me dead? It’s nothing new. I know how to deal with it._

_But you’re not dealing with it,_ he imagines Carisi saying. _I can tell._

Barba holds Carisi’s stare for as long as possible, not looking away until Carisi scrubs his hand across his jaw and loosens his tie with two fingers tucked behind the knot.

“You sound like the Lieu,” Carisi mutters, but he doesn’t say it to be mean. That, Barba knows. “Yeah, I’m seeing someone next week. We all are. Department policy.” 

“It might help,” Barba offers. _If not the grief, then the guilt._

Carisi slumps back against the couch with a huff. “It scares me, y’know. A lot,” he says, holding his beer in a loose grip on his lap. “Thinking about death. About dying, about _talking_ about dying. And I know I shouldn’t be scared ‘cus I’m a Catholic and it’s all God’s plan or whatever, but - well, I’m sure you know all about it. I don’t have to preach.” 

“I haven’t stepped foot inside a church for years,” says Barba, “I’m far from a model Catholic.”

Carisi waves his hand dismissively. _Semantics_ , he seems to say. 

“It’s just - I dunno. It felt kinda abstract until now. Everything that happened to Mike, how quick this job can sweep everything out from under your feet … how any day could literally be my _last_ day, and I’m never gonna know, not as long as I have this.” He taps the badge on his chest with the top of his beer bottle. “And it sucks, feeling like I don’t know what I’m doing, because my faith is the one thing I’m not meant to feel so -” 

He makes another elaborate gesture with his hand before it slaps down on the sofa cushions with a thud. 

“Not all Catholics spend every day thinking about how God is going to judge them when they die,” he continues. “I don’t. I don’t _want_ to think about it, not in this job, not with all the - not with all the shit I’ve seen.”

Barba takes a slow sip of his drink. “It’s a hard reality to escape when you’re surrounded by so much death.”

“Well, that’s just the thing!” Carisi exclaims, sitting up so suddenly that Barba has to snatch his glass away from Carisi’s flailing hand, “You gotta distance yourself from it otherwise you’re gonna go crazy. It’s why I left Homicide, I couldn’t deal with all - with all _that_. You see so many people wheeled out of crime scenes in body bags, but-”

His face falls, a frown carving lines into his forehead. His mouth turns down at the corners and he palms at his leg, as if kneading away an old ache. 

“For some reason, I didn’t think it’d ever be someone I knew,” he mutters. “I’ve been a cop for almost ten years and I never figured out what I’d do if it was my friend in that body bag. I guess that was dumb. My ma always says that foresight’s not my strong suit.”

“It’s not a question of foresight,” says Barba. “And if it was, I would have to disagree with your mother on that particular point.” 

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience, Counselor.”

Barba shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No, not experience.”

An uneasy silence falls into the space between them. Barba considers the colour of the scotch in his glass, and then the bright stream of headlights passing across the ceiling. He glances towards the window and a part of him wonders if it’s a car circling the block, trying to pick his apartment out from all the rest. 

He takes another long swig of his drink before clearing his throat. 

“It’s different when it’s someone close to you,” he says, “When it’s no longer something you can hold at arm’s length. You still want to try anyway.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell us about the phone calls?”

Barba’s jaw clenches. 

He doesn’t want to give Carisi the satisfaction of being right, but Carisi _is_ right, and Barba is exhausted.

And so he nods, stiffly, swirling his scotch around in his glass. 

Telling someone about the death threats would’ve made it real. It would’ve made him malleable; it would’ve said: _I let it get to me when it shouldn’t_.

Carisi leans forward, resting both elbows on his knees. “I know you, Barba,” he says. “And I know the sort of walls you put up around yourself to stop people getting close and seeing that you have actual _feelings_ -” 

“Putting those Detective skills to good use, I see,” Barba scowls. “What other insights into my psyche do you have, Doctor Carisi?” 

Carisi huffs loudly. “You ever think what it would’ve done to Liv if you hadn’t told us what was going on and then we’d lost you right after we lost Dodds?”

“That’s unnecessary -”

“But it’s the truth,” Carisi insists. He sets his bottle down on the coffee table and turns to face Barba. The full force of his stare has Barba’s hackles raising. Every crack of his feels illuminated. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

“I already told you -”

“No, you didn’t, Counselor. You didn’t.”

“What difference would it have made?” Barba snaps, before downing the rest of his drink. He regrets it immediately, hissing against the burn. He glances briefly at the rest of the bottle abandoned on his kitchen counter, because now he has nothing left to do with his hands and nothing left to hide behind. And like a pliable witness trapped in an interrogation room, Carisi will now know exactly where Barba is most vulnerable and easy to hurt. 

Barba sighs heavily. “Heredio’s still out there. It didn’t matter then if you knew or not. And you haven’t caught him yet, so it _still_ doesn’t matter now. This isn’t the first time my life has been threatened because of this job, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. I’ve grown used to keeping one eye open while I sleep.”

He clamps his mouth shut as soon as he says it. Not a witness, but a felon with a guilty conscience, that’s what he is. And he has no right to object to whatever Carisi has to say next, nor how it might hurt like the prodding of a well-sought bruise. 

Carisi considers Barba for a long and equally excruciating moment, his face scrunched up in a frown. 

“What?” Barba demands.

“Sorry,” Carisi says, “It’s just - it’s weird. I have this, uh, this picture of you inside my head that’s not -”

“That’s not what?”

“That’s not, y’know. _Fallible_.”

Barba snorts, shaking his head derisively. “Well, occasionally, some obnoxious Junior Detective will remind me that I _am_ human, and unfortunately being appropriately afraid for one’s safety is part of that affliction.”

Carisi has to press his lips together to hide his reluctant smile. 

“No need to tease, Counselor.”

“Well, no need to get smart with me, then, _Detective_ ,” Barba retorts. He considers retreating to the kitchen to refill his scotch, but Carisi has moved so close to him on the couch that Barba is afraid of touching him if he even tries to stand. He feels dangerously flammable, and one quick strike of his hand brushing Carisi’s thigh would do him as much good as a match against his skin.

It doesn’t matter. Carisi radiates enough warmth to do damage with four simple words.

“Are you afraid now?” he asks.

Barba glances at the locked door behind them. At the dark of the night hiding them from the city’s flagrant voyeurism. At the badge on Carisi’s chest that glints faintly gold. 

He meets Carisi’s blue stare and finds it, as always, unfairly and disarmingly honest. 

“No,” Barba whispers, “Not right now.”

_Not in here._

_Not with you._

It takes Carisi a moment to catch on and then his mouth falls open, a soft “oh” of realisation almost lost to the hum of the overhead lights. 

Then, looking away, he mumbles, “It wouldn’t just be Liv, by the way.”

“What?” asks Barba. 

“It wouldn’t just be Liv,” Carisi repeats, fiddling with his hands. “It’s not just her that it would’ve hurt if you hadn’t said anything about the threats and … and something _had_ happened.”

Barba purses his lips. “Like I said before, I don’t take pleasure in telling other people about the finer details of a man wanting to throw me down the stairs outside the courthouse.”

“Barba -”

“I told you I don’t want to think about it,” he interrupts, “ _Carisi_. Enough.”

Carisi leans closer, a wave of aftershave and rain-wet uniform accompanying the lurch of Barba’s chest. Carisi’s knee knocks against Barba’s, a warm punch of pressure, and then his hand, ever gentle and ever bold, touches Barba’s thigh. 

Barba’s eyes flick down and then rapidly back up. 

“I don’t want to think about it either,” Carisi says honestly. Barely a whisper, but loud enough to fill the quiet in the apartment. “But I gotta. It’s not something I can hold at arm’s length anymore, so I gotta. That’s what you just said.” 

Carisi reaches out and takes the empty glass from Barba’s hand, banishing it to the coffee table. 

Barba holds himself perfectly still. 

"Dominick," he murmurs, but Carisi doesn't look up. 

His eyes are fixed on the knot of Barba’s tie again. Maybe he’s unused to the sound of his own name; maybe he doesn’t recognise it from Barba's lips. 

Barba sighs exasperatedly. " _Sonny_."

It feels too juvenile, too intimate, like he’s surrendering some ground he’s usually too stubborn to give up. It’s the sort of familiarity that Barba shouldn't be afforded - especially on a day like today - and he wants to take it back in an instant. But Carisi's eyes widen a fraction and his tongue pokes back out to lick his lower lip and he looks so fucking _dazed_ that Barba thinks maybe, just maybe, he’s not the only one who feels alone tonight.

Barba shakes his head to rid himself of the thought. "Nevermind," he says, and then looks back to Carisi. "Forget it, it’s late, I should go to-"

It’s a sentence left unfinished, although for better or for worse, he cannot say. 

Carisi pushes up off the sofa and leans in, the broad span on his hand gripping Barba’s thigh. His fingers dig into Barba’s flesh; suddenly, the warmth of him is suffocating. 

He kisses Barba soundly - mouth, tongue, teeth, all of it. He kisses Barba like he thought he’d never get the chance. 

Barba doesn’t want to ask why. He _knows_ why. Carisi has spelled it out for him in words and glances well enough; he wears his heart on his fucking sleeve.

That’s why Barba grabs Carisi’s tie and winds it around his fist, hauling Carisi forward so that his hand slides up Barba’s leg, his fingers sinking into the crease of Barba’s thigh. That’s why Barba kisses him back, hard, harder than he’s kissed anyone in years, frustrated by the taste of shitty beer on Carisi’s tongue. 

He nips at Carisi’s lower lip with his teeth, vying for an argument. _Always._

Carisi jerks back in surprise, his hair askew, his tie sliding from Barba’s grip like silk. His face is bright red, his eyes blown wide.

"Uh," he says, and the blush spreads across his cheeks and down his throat, beneath the collar of his uniform.

Barba doesn’t move from where he’s pressed into the corner of the sofa. His hand drops to his lap and, with all the control he can muster, he smooths out the creases in his slacks. 

"Very eloquent, Detective," he says, but each word feels pressed through a vice, his body wound so tight that he feels like he might snap. He watches the rise and fall of Carisi’s chest, and then he looks up, meeting Carisi’s bewildered stare with a wry and curling smile. 

Barba drops his voice. A dare. An invitation for a courtroom tryst without any witnesses. He wants Carisi’s hands all over him. “Is that all you’ve got?”

Carisi’s expression darkens; the breath hitches in his throat and his hands curl into fists on his lap, his knuckles pressing into the stiff fabric of his uniform. 

Then, he mutters, “You really gotta make everything a fight, don’t’cha, Counselor?” 

_Always_ , Barba thinks again.

Carisi grabs Barba by the waistcoat, satin creasing in his fists, and clambers up onto his knees. He leans over Barba, tall and flushed and handsomely bedraggled, and crowds Barba back against the leather sofa, pinning him against the cushions. 

It makes Barba want to pull and push and shove, to parry, to wrestle for control; he surges up to meet Carisi’s mouth, kissing him with _bite_. 

Carisi always gives as good as he gets - mouthy and belligerent even here, infuriating in a way Barba can never explain - but Barba wants more. He _needs_ more. He shoves Carisi’s uniform jacket from his shoulders and as Carisi wrestles with the sleeves, Barba licks the groan out of his mouth. The jacket goes flying; it lands with a distant thud. Barba doesn’t care to look. His hands are on Carisi’s slim waist, tugging him forward by the hips, positioning him how Barba wants him, and then all Barba can feel is heat. 

Carisi’s hands find his face, his long fingers curling around the back of Barba’s neck and scratching at the short hair on his nape. He tilts Barba’s head up and back, pushing his tongue into Barba’s mouth, and kisses Barba so deeply that Barba can feel the shiver right down in his toes. 

Barba’s never been kissed like this before. Like he’s going to look in the mirror when this is over and see Carisi smeared forcibly across his mouth. It feels messy.

Hell, it _is_ messy, and that’s why Barba wants it as he does; he’s tired of being handled with gloves. He’s tired of people whispering behind his back and of Liv’s weary sighs and of patrol officers on his doorstep. 

It’s messy because here is Carisi trying to outrun grief, and Barba trying to outrun - well, something else, something he doesn’t want to turn and face. It’s similar enough to grief - numbness, emptiness, a desperate need to feel _something, anything_ \- and Barba knows it well.

So Barba digs his short nails too hard into Carisi’s biceps, and he palms Carisi’s jaw too roughly, pulling his thumb across Carisi’s lower lip as he kisses Carisi again and watches colour rush to his touch.

He slides his hands down to Carisi’s shoulders and shoves him back onto the sofa; he lands with a soft _mmph_ , breathless, but Barba doesn’t give him time to regroup. He swings his leg over Carisi’s, slotting a knee between Carisi’s thighs. 

Carisi grinds against him, and the rough slide of his uniform against Barba’s thigh has his eyes fluttering closed and he exhales sharply through his nose. 

“Yeah,” he pants, unable to stay silent. “Yeah, yeah, okay -”

There’s colour splotched across his cheeks like a crime scene. Barba doesn’t want to think about it. He’s already thinking about Sergeant Dodds’ photograph watching them both from the back of the bar; and then about the rain on the windshield and the car not-following them in the rearview mirror.

He’s thinking about Carisi perched on the corner of his desk. Carisi’s frown. Carisi’s disappointment. His eagerness to do good; his want to please. How he’ll give and give and give and give and never fucking take no for an answer when Barba tells him he doesn’t want to talk about any of it - 

Barba sinks his teeth into the juncture of Carisi’s neck, biting down hard. Carisi groans, his body arching up, seeking presence, seeking heat, his hands scrambling for purchase on Barba’s back. His fingers press into the dip of Barba’s spine and knead at pliant skin.

Barba sucks on the bruised spot and then soothes it with a swipe of his tongue, nipping at the underside of Carisi’s jaw until Carisi throws his head back to expose his throat. 

It makes Barba feel possessive. It makes him feel like he has some fleeting grasp on control, and God, he needs it. He needs it more than most.

“I’ve thought about this,” Carisi huffs against his ear. His hands make fists in the back of Barba’s waistcoat, pulling Barba’s shirt out of his pants. “So fucking much.”

_Of course you have_ , Barba thinks cruelly. He grazes his teeth against the corner of Carisi’s jaw and tugs on his earlobe; Carisi sucks in a sharp breath. _Just be quiet._

Barba reaches down for the buckle of Carisi’s belt with one hand, dragging his other hand down the front of Carisi’s chest; beneath the blade of Carisi’s tie, Barba can feel the outline of a Saint’s medal laid flush against his skin. He wants to see it; the belt can wait. 

He turns his attention to the gold buttons on Carisi’s shirt, but the pointed edge of Carisi’s badge digs into Barba’s palm. Carisi arches up into the touch, but then he grunts, his holster pressing uncomfortably into his hip.

“Ow,” he mutters into Barba’s mouth, and Barba pulls back just far enough to give him breathing room. “Hang on, just let me -” 

Carisi unpeels Barba’s hands from his chest and slides out from beneath the cage of Barba’s arms. Barba huffs, flopping back onto the sofa, and he smooths down the front of his vest; beneath his palm, he tracks the racing of his pulse. 

Carisi shoots him an unreadable look over his shoulder - soft, apologetic, knowing - as he unbuckles his holster from his belt and tosses his service weapon, his badge, his stupid Apple watch and then, after a second of thought, his tie onto the coffee table. The open vee of his shirt collar reveals pale skin and the glint of a silver chain around his throat.

For a moment, perched on the edge of the couch, he hesitates, looking back at Barba, and the longer it goes on, the more it feels like scrutiny, and the more it worms its way beneath Barba’s skin like an infuriating itch. 

He wants to know what Carisi is looking for. He wants to know what it is that Carisi thinks he can read on Barba’s face. He wants to demand it, almost as much as he wants to reel Carisi back in and press him into the couch cushions and kiss him hard until all he hears is white noise. 

Barba feels a frown forming, sharp words on the tip of his tongue - a squabble which Cairisi will undoubtedly be able to answer - but then the beam of a passing car roams across the ceiling, twin white lights cresting across Carisi’s back and illuminating him from behind. 

Barba’s attention shifts to the window, the blinds not yet drawn. The glow of New York pervades in orange, the streetlights outside peering into Barba’s living room, parting the rain like curtains. 

Suddenly the warmth radiating off Carisi is replaced by a cold, sharp shove.

The notion that someone parked against the opposite curb might be watching them from afar assaults Barba’s thoughts and he can’t shake it, clenching his jaw. His shirt feels thin; his waistcoat isn’t the armour that it usually is. 

“Bedroom,” Barba says through gritted teeth, his voice pitched low. “Now.” 

Carisi scrambles off the couch, catching his toe on the corner of the coffee table. He makes a muffled noise of pain and Barba rolls his eyes, turning his back on Carisi as he rises from the couch and approaches the window.

He’s always careful about standing to the side, unwilling to be seen from street level, but this time, he lingers. He scans the length of the street - Carisi’s car is still parked where he left it - and finds no movement, no passing cars, no strangers loitering in the shadow just beyond the reach of a streetlight. The night is cooling fast, that same cold tangible this close to the glass, and faint rain still leaves pockmarks on the sidewalk.

Barba presses his fingertips to the glass, briefly closing his eyes, and then he draws the blinds and steps away, following the sound of Carisi clattering into his bedroom. 

* * *

In his bedroom, the curtains are already closed. The sound of rain is muffled, the cold trapped between linen and glass. Barba stops in the doorway as Carisi flips on the bedside light and smothers the room in a soft yellow glow. 

His eyes meet Barba’s, a glance thrown over his shoulder with half of a wistful-looking smile. 

_‘You don’t like people seeing you through the window, am I right, Counselor?’_ Barba imagines Carisi saying. ‘ _Don’t worry, I got you. You don’t even have’ta ask.’_

Always eager to please. Always eager to do good, to leave a lasting impression, as if Barba doesn’t already know everything he needs to know about this man. 

_Too good. Too kind for you._

_Too forgiving._

Barba exhales through his nose, unable to step across the threshold of his own damn room. He looks back to the window, and then at Carisi again as Carisi lowers himself onto the end of the bed. 

His long legs stretch out in front of him, crossed at the ankle; both his palms are flat on the mattress. But it’s his fingers that Barba is drawn to, arched, digging into the sheets, uncharacteristically nervous. He’s pretending like he’s inspecting Barba’s bedroom, attention shifting from bookshelf to closet to bedside table - but Barba knows better. 

The red flush in Carisi’s cheeks has not faded, but some of the urgency has. When he looks up at Barba and their eyes meet, there’s a longing within him, a small and quiet sadness, as if he’s disappointed that he can’t do more to help than draw the curtains. 

Barba will not have that. He doesn’t want Carisi’s pity. He steps over the threshold and stalks towards Carisi, fitting between his legs as Carisi spreads his knees and, immediately, Barba begins the dutiful task of unbuttoning Carisi’s uniform. 

Carisi’s breath catches. A soft “ _oh_ ” swallowed back and hidden for fear of appearing too eager or too ruined.

His large hands rest on Barba’s hips, his thumbs picking at the waistband of Barba’s pants. He tilts his head to the side, exposing the dark mark bitten into the line of his throat, and he watches Barba quietly from beneath his eyelashes. 

“Run out of things to say, have we, Detective?” Barba asks, undoing the final button. He parts the two halves of Carisi’s shirt with his hands - the fabric is stiff, heavy, and doesn’t hang as nicely as the plain white cotton of a button-down - and then takes a moment to admire the thin, wiry planes of Carisi’s bare chest. “Took you long enough.”

“Nah,” Carisi murmurs, and he pushes his fingers up beneath Barba’s waistcoat and untucked shirt. “Just figured you didn’t want to hear ‘em anymore.” 

Barba stills, letting Carisi’s shirt go. Carisi blinks up at him, the look in his eyes both determined and a little bruised, like he’s waiting for Barba to take what he wants, to tell Carisi what he _needs_ , because God knows Carisi wants to give it. 

He wants to be useful. 

His words echo from the bar: _‘Let me do something right_.’

Barba shakes his head and reaches up, roughly taking hold of Carisi’s jaw and pulling him close.

“You know better than to make assumptions,” he says, and then he kisses Carisi firmly, pushing his tongue into Carisi’s mouth. 

_What is it about funerals,_ he thinks, as Carisi spreads his palm across the small of Barba’s back and draws his body close, _that makes you want to sleep with someone?_

He can hear Rita in his head, counting the reasons on her fingers: ‘ _grief, loneliness, the dreadful knowledge that, if_ you _were the one six feet under, it would be all_ your _relatives standing around a hole in the ground, making such an embarrassing racket. Oh, and alcohol. Usually alcohol. What else do you want me to say, Rafael?’_

He knows the answer. He wants to feel something other than fear over what might be hiding in the dark corners of his apartment or beyond the panes of his window. That’s as good a reason as any. Barba has never claimed not to be self-serving -

Although he suspects Carisi would have something to say about it if he did. 

Carisi pulls away from the kiss and kicks off his shoes, scuffing the well-polished leather. There’s an earnest, crooked tilt to his lips as he shuffles back on the bed, a lightness in his eyes that Barba has dearly missed. God, he looks so fucking young. 

_‘You’re really going to use him to get what you want?’_ Rita would say with the arch of a single eyebrow. _‘When you know full well what_ he _wants from_ you _?’_

Barba quickly discards his waistcoat and then his tie, folding them up and tossing them onto the dresser. He steps out of his shoes and peels off his socks, and then crawls onto the bed, rolling up the cuffs of his shirt around his elbows.

Carisi flops back against the pillows, his arms spread wide, his shirt unbuttoned, his belt loose but not yet undone. His hair is ruffled and still rain-damp, and his eyes follow Barba as Barba slinks between his knees. 

He looks -

_He looks vulnerable_ , Barba decides. _Manageable_ , and that’s never been a word Barba has used to describe Dominick ‘ _Call Me Sonny_ ’ Carisi. He looks smaller than Barba knows him to be, pliant and subservient, like he’s surrendering control to Barba in a way he clearly knows Barba needs.

Control, yes. He needs that; he wants that. But it’s the push and pull he craves, the drawl of his name on Carisi’s tongue in that ridiculous accent with just the barest inflection of irritation.

_‘Am I right, Counselor?’_

Barba tugs with Carisi’s belt, undoing the buckle, and yanks it free of his pants. It hits the floor with another ignorable _thunk_. He drags his hands up Carisi’s abdomen, pushing upwards, feeling the flutter of well-trained muscle against his palms and marvelling at the way it matches the stutter of Carisi’s breath. He sinks his fingers into Carisi’s ribs but there’s so little give to his skin - not like his own thick chest - and then continues onwards, kneading his palm across Carisi’s pecs.

His fingertips brush against the fine silver chain settled in the shallow divot of Carisi’s throat. He collects the pendant in his hand, rubbing his thumb across the engraved silver medal as he brings it up to inspect it.

“This isn’t Saint Dominic,” he murmurs.

Beneath him, Carisi lifts his hips, planting his feet on the mattress so that Barba slips forward between his legs. He’s hard, unignorably so, and it presses into the juncture of Barba’s thigh. 

Carisi hums and then wraps his long fingers around Barba’s wrist, holding Barba’s hand in place. 

“That’s ‘cus it’s Saint Michael the Archangel,” he says, and his eyes flick up to meet Barba’s. A pause. A noticeable one. “Patron saint of police officers.”

Barba clenches his jaw, rolling the medal between his fingertips. 

“You always wear this?”

“Not usually. I have others,” Carisi replies. He twists beneath Barba’s weight but has nowhere to go. “It was a gift from my ma when I graduated from the Academy, y’know, to keep me safe, but it got lost when I moved outta Staten Island. Found it again a few days ago.” He hesitates again, swallowing thickly. “Seemed appropriate, I guess. For Mike and all.”

Barba drops the medal to Carisi’s chest and presses his palm over it, pushing the warmed metal into his skin, hoping it might leave a mark. He leans forward, his breath hot on Carisi’s face, and kisses Carisi hard. 

When he pulls back, Carisi’s eyes are still distant. Barba slides his hand up the length of Carisi’s neck, pressing his thumb into the underside of Carisi’s jaw, forcing him to tilt his head back onto the pillow. 

“Stop thinking about it,” Barba murmurs. 

“I’m not,” Carisi retorts. He meets Barba’s stare petulantly, rolling his hips up. “Kinda hard to think of anything else when you’re on top of me, Counselor.” 

“I should hope so,” Barba says. He reaches down and flicks open the button of Carisi’s slacks, before palming at Carisi’s fly. He wraps his fingers around the shape of Carisi through the fabric. Carisi groans, sinking his teeth into his lower lip, and he grinds into the heel of Barba’s hand. 

“Yeah, that’s good, that’s real good,” he gasps, “That’s real good, Counselor, c’mon -”

Barba withdraws his hand and Carisi swears below his breath. Barba sits back on his knees and begins unbuttoning his shirt, and he watches as the haze clears from Carisi’s eyes. 

Carisi pushes up on his elbows, chewing his lip. He follows the movement of Barba’s fingers down his chest, picking at each button, and his hands slide slowly up the expanse of Barba’s thighs, working at the muscle.

Barba pauses on the very last button.

“Carisi,” he says, a command. “Look at me.” The moment of urgency from before has abandoned him, leaving him weary, and now he sounds almost tender. 

He’s sure Carisi will forgive him for that too. 

Carisi’s eyes meet his, drawn, near-dutifully, to an order he knows he can follow. His fingers sink into Barba’s thighs, gripping tight. 

“Yeah,” he exhales as a pink flush covers his throat and bleeds into his skin. “Yeah, yeah, I’m with you, I swear. I’m here.” 

Then, he sits up, wrapping one arm around Barba’s waist and bringing them chest to chest, skin against bare skin. His nose nudges against Barba’s, his breath warm against Barba’s jaw; whatever argument Barba longs for is replaced only by gentleness. 

Barba will take it. Carisi’s eyes are so remarkably blue. 

* * *

Barba stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, both hands gripping the sink. Distantly, he can still hear the rain, some whispering hiss, but the faucet is louder as he leans down to splash himself with cold water. He scrubs hard at his face with a clean towel, and when he meets his reflection again, his skin is flushed. 

There’s a dark bruise on his shoulder, dried sweat on the back of his neck. His hair is a mess, raked up on end by insistent fingers. 

He’s growing grey around the temples. He noticed it a while ago, those first few wiry strands, and he had taken the morning off work to go straight to his barber’s for a cut and colour, and the only person who had noticed was Carmen. 

Barba turns off the faucet and peers into the mirror, turning his head from side to side. He inspects the patch of grey above his ears that seems brighter than usual beneath the fluorescence of his bathroom light. He tries to smooth his hair back against the side of his head, and then he prods curiously at his jaw, already pricked by stubble.

His mouth, next, red and bitten. It tells a clear story, and Barba searches his body for more trace evidence: teeth marks, scratches, out-of-practice aches. He runs his fingers through his chest hair, reliving the feel of Carisi’s hand kneading at his skin, and then down: his belly, his thighs, a body distinctly middle-aged and well-fucked. 

His eyes drift to the condom dropped unscrupulously in the trash. The musty smell of sex lingers in the air, drifting through the open bathroom door. It makes Barba forget the patches of grey hair along his temples; it makes him feel young again, young and naive enough to do a stupid thing like take a colleague home to bed after a funeral.

Barba’s thoughts shift to the opened bottle of scotch sitting on his kitchen counter - he could use a drink or two, his mouth dry and tasting of another man’s skin - but the thought of wandering back out into his living room in his underwear fills him with just enough unease to force his hand. Instead, he settles for a shot of mouthwash that he swirls around his mouth, rinsing Carisi from between his teeth, and spits it out into the sink.

He doesn’t know the rules here. It’s been years since he last had a one-night stand, not since his first few years as an ADA, when he was scrambling his way up the ladder and could still bring himself to frequent a bar after a fourteen hour day. He no longer has the time to take strangers home, not between this job and his inability to attract those who don’t want and want and want from him. _Such people don’t good bed mates make_ , Barba has learned. They expect too much of him; they want much more than he can give. 

But Carisi is no stranger, and something about this isn’t a one-night stand, neither by definition nor intent. One night stands are meant to be cut-and-dry, _impersonal_ , sex like a business transaction where expectations are met but not exceeded.

But there are already feelings here, tender feelings, guilty feelings, feelings on Carisi’s part which Barba knows he has taken advantage of. One night stands are meant to be ended with a quick kiss and a few grunted, sweaty words in the early hours of the morning and a promise to call that is never followed through. A surrender to a singular time and place, not be repeated or reminded of. 

Barba turns off the bathroom light and wanders back into his bedroom, pausing in the doorway to watch the man spread out on his bed, all white skin and impossibly long legs.

Carisi is still here. He hasn’t left. He doesn’t even look close to leaving, his body unspooled and satiated in the most bone-deep way; the nervous twitch from the bar has left him. He’s sprawled on top of the covers, pillows scattered around his head, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes. 

The only light in the room, now, is that which slips through the gap in the curtains: a thin, orange beam that stripes across the Detective’s chest as one singular laceration. Carisi breathes deeply - and the light shifts - but he’s not asleep. Not yet. 

Barba could still ask him to move to the sofa. If he wanted to. He _should_ want to.

But tonight, Barba likes the thought of another warm body between him and the window, and despite what his detractors say about him, he’s not so cold and callous that he would kick a man out of his bed the night after a friend’s memorial. 

He won’t say a word. 

Barba pushes away from the door and crosses the room, collecting fresh underwear from the dresser on his way to the bed. He kicks Carisi’s uniform pants and sighs heavily, bending down to grab them and fold them up, though there will be no saving them from creases in the morning. He gathers up Carisi’s shirt and his shoes and piles them all in the corner before returning to his side of the bed.

His attention drifts from Carisi’s thin ankles, up the length of his calves, his thighs, the dark blond hair around his cock and across his chest, pausing to study the faded white scars along his ribs that one might call _the perils of the job_. 

There are crescent-shaped nail marks along his collarbone too, and those are Barba’s handiwork. Barba finds he can’t look at them for long. 

He tugs at the covers. “If you’re going to stay the night, Detective, you may as well get under the sheets,” he murmurs. “Some of us need to sleep if we’re to function in the morning.” 

Carisi lifts his arm from over his eyes. His gaze falls lazily on Barba and he raises his hips enough for Barba to steal the sheets from beneath him, but he doesn’t try to move, either oblivious or indifferent to his own nakedness. 

Barba rolls his eyes and huffs, setting his alarm on his phone for God-awful o’clock as he climbs into bed. Carisi says nothing, his attention drifting to the ceiling as Barba fluffs his pillow and draws the duvet up to his chin and rolls pertinently onto his side so that Carisi is presented with his back.

Still nothing. Silence and deep breathing and the faint pitter-patter of rain beyond the window. 

Barba closes his eyes, but his body is still thrumming. He’s exhausted, possessed by a weariness that weighs down his arms and legs and intensifies the ache he feels in his thighs, his body stretched thin and drawn taut. It’s been a long day, longer than most in recent memory, but the bed is only so big and Carisi radiates heat like a furnace from which Barba can’t escape. 

He’s hyperware of Carisi’s slow huffs of breath. The creak of the mattress. The rustle of the duvet. 

A small, quiet sigh in the dark. 

Barba rolls over, already frowning, but the look he finds on Carisi’s face is both distant and plaintive as he stares at the ceiling. One of his large hands rests on his chest, fingers rubbing at the hollow of his throat where his medal lies. 

He doesn’t turn to look at Barba, but something in the line of his body changes, unwinding, exhaling, as if he knows Barba is watching him and is brave enough to lay himself bare. 

“You’re thinking too loud,” Barba says. 

Carisi’s mouth pulls up at the corner and he tilts his head on the pillow to look at Barba. “Really?” he teases, “That’s what you’re gonna gripe at me about? I gotta say, I expected better pillowtalk from you, Counselor.”

“I save my closing remarks for the courtroom, thank you very much,” Barba retorts. “We don’t need to talk. You can just be silent.”

“You’re the one who asked,” Carisi laughs lightly. “You wanna know what I’m thinking about?”

“No.”

Carisi grins, picking up his medal and rolling it across his knuckles so that it catches in the light. The silver glints in orange, a single point of focus in a dark room. “I’m thinking about how I’m never gonna get the picture of you on your knees outta my head, if you really gotta know.”

“That’s crass, even for you,” Barba scowls, rolling back over. He yanks the covers over his shoulders and burrows down into the pillows. 

It makes Carisi laugh once more, softer, breathier, wearier; and then the mattress dips as he rolls onto his side too. His breath ghosts across the back of Barba’s neck.

Barba can’t fight the shiver, but he can tell himself that it’s because of the cold outside his window and not because he half-expects an arm to be slung over his waist. He knows how to be petulant. 

For a long while, neither of them say a word. Barba closes his eyes, but sleep is as elusive as ever. He fights the urge to toss and turn, the urge to kick Carisi in the shins and snap at him to move over. He stares, instead, at the outline of his phone on his nightstand, considering whether counting unread emails in his inbox will have the same effect as counting sheep. 

And then, as the tangled knot of thoughts and complicated feelings inside his head begins to unravel, Carisi speaks.

“I was thinking about Mike again,” he says, and this time, his voice is low and mournful. “If you really, _really_ gotta know.”

Barba sighs quietly. “I have a feeling you’re about to tell me about it anyway.” 

He hears Carisi huff. “I just - I meant what I said back there in the bar, that’s all. ‘Bout how it shoulda been me in that house, with Munson. But then that’s got me thinkin’ about, well, y’know. All the things I still wanna do with my life. All my unfinished business.”

“Have a lot of unfinished business, do you?”

“It’s not that, it’s like - this whole thing got me thinking about my ma, my sisters, how they’d feel if they got that call. You didn’t see how the Deputy Chief was like in that hospital but - yeah, I just kept thinkin’ about how my dad would look if it was me, lying on that bed with all them tubes sticking out of me.”

Carisi exhales slowly before he continues.

“And then I was thinkin’ about the squad, and how bummed Amanda would be, and how Liv doesn’t deserve to keep losing people like that. I bet even Fin would shed a tear, y’know.”

It’s then that Barba feels it: the lightest press of fingertips against the ridges of his spine. It doesn’t last long enough to be tender, and nor is it Carisi seeking his attention, but wordlessly, it says:

_And then there’s you._

It fills Barba with the same crowded feeling as when Carisi perches on his desk and leans into his space; how he wants to be close. Carisi wants to be grounded, tethered to the Earth and here, now, he touches Barba like each indentation of his spine is a bead on the Rosary.

But it’s Barba who is muttering prayers below his breath. 

“It made me wonder if the risk is worth the good I try to do,” Carisi continues. “And if the good I do is worth all the things I might miss out on if that next call ends up being my last. Made me think whether it’s all just part of being a cop and I’m just not used to it yet, or whether -” His voice drops to a whisper and he presses a knuckle into Barba’s back, a touch more solid than the rest. “Whether SVU really is the back-up plan.”

There’s only so much self-pity Barba can bear.

He turns over, pushing himself up on his elbows so that he can look down at Carisi. Carisi blinks up at him, the faint light now catching in pale gold streaks through his hair and across his cheeks and crooked nose. 

“What?” he asks, visibly concerned. He moves to sit up, already on high alert. “What’s the matter? You hear something?”

His eyes dart to the gap in the blinds, and then to the bedroom door, left ajar amidst scattered clothes. He’s already calculating how far it is from the bed to his service weapon, abandoned on the coffee table, and that thought alone makes Barba frown, the corners of his mouth turning downwards. 

This. _This is why he’s wasted as a cop_ , Barba thinks. _He’s too good for it._

_‘Let me do something right.’_

Barba reaches out and touches Carisi’s forearm, stopping him from springing out of bed. Carisi looks up at him, confused, but Barba shakes his head.

“Plans change,” he says simply. “And people outgrow the places they’ve been for too long, and perhaps that includes SVU for you.” Barba furrows his brow. “I know the DA in Brooklyn. He’s a friend. So if you want to open that door, I can get you an interview.”

Carisi hesitates. “Why?” 

“Why, what?” Barba says. “The sooner you make the jump to the DA’s office, the faster I can escape your uninvited legal insights whenever I visit the precinct. It’s a win for the both of us.” 

It doesn’t come out as callous as he means. He thinks Carisi probably knows that too. 

With a sigh, Barba scrubs at his eyes. He tries again. “Carisi. You don’t want to be a cop anymore.” 

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Barba replies. “You might not realise it now, but you will. If you were happy where you are, you wouldn’t speak about it like you do.” He reaches out and scoops up Carisi’s medal in his fingers, rubbing his thumb over the engraving of Saint Michael, and Carisi rises to meet him. “I think it has very little to do with Sergeant Dodds.” 

Carisi’s jaw works, words bitten between his teeth. _Go on,_ Barba thinks, and he tugs on Carisi’s medal, not hard, but enough for the silver chin to bite into his skin. _Go on, tell me I’m wrong. Argue with me._

Carisi doesn’t argue. His hand comes up and he unfurls Barba’s fingers one by one until the necklace falls from his palm. 

He holds Barba’s gaze and, slowly, lowers himself back down onto the mattress. There’s something petulant in his expression, but in the dark, Barba can’t tell if his face is flushed to match.

“You’re not going to tell me I’m wrong, Detective?” Barba asks. Carisi’s silence unnerves him and Barba is incensed by the need to fill it, to reestablish the playing field he knows well, one where he usually holds the cards. “I’m surprised. You’re usually so eager to give me a piece of your mind.”

Carisi scoffs and Barba catches the flash of white teeth as Carisi bites back his smile. Shaking his head, Carisi steals the corner of the duvet from Barba’s lap and drapes it over himself as he settles down and makes himself comfortable. He’s too long for Barba’s bed, and he draws his legs up beneath the covers until his cold toes nudge Barba’s shin. 

“C’mon, lie back down,” Carisi says, “You’re wearing me out here.”

Barba stares at him but Carisi nudges him with his knee again, and reluctantly, Barba does as he’s told. He sinks back into his pillows, but this time, he doesn’t turn his back. The faint light from the window highlights the profile of Carisi’s face, a pale white outline tracing the prominent shape of his nose from bridge to tip, down to the bow of his lips. 

Barba swallows back the dryness in his mouth. 

_I’m not always looking for a fight,_ he wants to say, as if he owes an explanation to Carisi somehow. _I just want to push you. I know what you can be._

Carisi scratches absently at his chest, the sheets rustling as he shifts onto his back. He folds his hands on his stomach and stares up at the ceiling. 

Outside, a car passes by, its headlights hidden by the curtains, but the sound of its tires splashing in the gutters is unmistakable. Barba listens to the hum of its engine fade. 

“Hey, Rafael?”

“Mhm?”

In the dark, Carisi’s voice is quieter. Barba follows the movement of his mouth; Carisi pulls his lip between his teeth and chews on it before he speaks.

“I passed the bar, y’know.”

“And you gave me shit for _my_ pillowtalk,” Barba grumbles. Carisi says nothing, but Barba watches his hand drift back to his medal and his fingers press into the shallow valley of his sternum like he’s trying to soothe an old and insistent ache. Barba sighs heavily. “The results must’ve come out weeks ago.”

“Yeah, about two weeks ago but I, uh - I guess I couldn’t find the right time to say anything. To you, I mean,” Carisi admits, “It’s been kinda crazy … and then it didn’t really feel important. After everything.”

The knot in Barba’s stomach pulls tight; his post-orgasm looseness is already a thing of the past. 

“I already knew.”

This time, it’s Carisi’s turn to push up on his elbows. 

“You knew?”

“I had Carmen check the postings the morning the results were announced,” Barba says. It’s a half-lie. He checked them himself. “It’s public record, after all, and I suppose I was personally invested in the outcome, shall we say.”

Carisi stares at him for a moment. “You still had to know my student ID.” 

He isn’t wrong. It’s an excellent cross-examination and Barba finds himself caught out. 

“Well,” he says slowly, “You’ve got me. What now?” 

Carisi offers him a small grin. “Congratulations, maybe? Instead of you trying to palm me off on whichever DA you think I’ll annoy the most.”

Barba narrows his eyes. Carisi sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist, and Barba begrudgingly admires the lines of him, the paleness of his skin in a fake sort of moonlight. 

Barba feels himself stir, warmth and longing amassing in his belly, but he’s not young enough to get hard again so soon.

Still, he drags his gaze up the length of Carisi’s chest and then drops his voice low. 

“Congratulations then, Detective. You earned it.” 

Carisi gulps and then edges closer; Barba can feel the heat of him radiating out beneath the covers, his hand creeping across Barba’s thigh. He doesn’t reach for what he wants - he won’t move a muscle until Barba gives him a nod and an audible _yes_ \- but Barba shifts his hips so that Carisi’s long fingers press against his inseam. 

Carisi clears his throat obviously. “Yeah, well, it was thanks to you,” he says. “I wouldn’t’ve passed if it weren’t for all your advice and the shadowing and … stuff.”

“And _stuff_ ,” Rafael parrots. “I think we can give Fordham Law some credit. You don’t need to butter me up. You’re already in my bed.”

Another passing car illuminates the side of Carisi’s face and it’s enough for Barba to see Carisi blush. He ducks his head, eyes flicking away and then back again. Hopeful. 

Barba raises his eyebrow. _What are you waiting for?_

It’s all the permission Carisi needs. 

He leans down, pushing Barba into the mattress with one firm hand spread across Barba’s shoulder, the other hitching Barba’s thigh up around his hip, and he kisses Barba in the dark. 

_That’s not how this is meant to go_ , Barba wants to say, but he doesn’t. His hand finds the back of Carisi’s neck, his fingers sinking into lean flesh, and he draws him closer and kisses him back.

* * *

**iii.**

say he didn’t make me swallow his country

& its brief sunrise that night & i cannot say this

is this not what i wanted

— George Abraham, from Portrait of Reality, in Fragments

* * *

Barba wakes to the bleating of his alarm and an empty bed. There’s a faint ache in his temples, the aftereffects of one too many glasses of scotch, and another ache in his back and in his thighs, and he squints against the beam of bright sunlight that slices through the gap in his curtains. 

He can’t remember the last time he woke later than the sunrise. Hell, he can’t remember the last time he woke with his alarm, and not before it, disturbed by the sounds of the city stirring. 

Belatedly, he realises that this is the first time he’s slept through the night since the Terrence Reynolds indictment. 

His apartment is silent. His shirt and waistcoat have been hung up on a hangar on the back of his door, yesterday’s tie looped through the collar. It takes his sleep-addled brain a moment too long to realise that he doesn’t remember doing that. 

In fact, he distinctly remembers tossing all his clothes on the floor.

Barba pulls himself up against the headboard. He blinks the lethargy from his eyes, but nothing in the room changes: the shirt on the back of the door, the unopened curtains, the disturbed yet empty sheets beside him. 

With a frown, he reaches out and pats the other pillow. It’s still warm, although barely. The Detective has been gone a while. 

Barba feels himself deflate. Some part of him is disappointed, and here, alone, he’s able to dwell on it and not push it to the side. 

Disappointed that Carisi chose to leave without waking him. Disappointed that he had to leave at all. 

Barba’s phone lights up with a notification and he reaches for it too quickly, eager to have it back in his hand after a long night without it. He half-expects to see a text message from ‘ _Carisi SVU_ ’ at the top of his screen, an apology for ducking out on him so early - _sorry, Counselor, we caught a case and I didn’t wanna wake you_ \- but all he finds is his schedule for the day from Carmen, the unanswered email from Rita, and a new text from Liv. 

He opens that first.

From: Liv Benson | 26 Apr 2016 22:27

_Did you get home OK tonight? Rollins said that Carisi gave you a lift. Hope he didn’t talk your ear off x_

From: Liv Benson | 27 Apr 2016 07:14

 _New lead on Heredio. I’ll let you know if we find anything x_

Barba sighs and drops his phone to his lap. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, feeling the warmth of the late-spring sun wash across his eyelids. The rain and the cold from the night before seem like a distant memory, but he knows there will still be puddles in the gutters when he ventures outside, along with the doleful stares of his patrol detail watching him as he hails a cab. 

He doesn’t want to think about that, but the heady feelings of last night have abandoned him and he can’t afford to linger there. 

Squinting open one eye, he glances down at the rumpled sheets again. The lack of a note on the pillow leaves him feeling out of his depth; he’s not sure why he was hoping for one to begin with. 

_Coffee_. Coffee first, he decides. Then he can deal with everything else. 

* * *

The coffee pot has been left on a timer. The smell of freshly-ground coffee beans draws Barba into the kitchen but the whir of the filter makes him pause. On the draining board, there’s a single mug, scrubbed clean and left upside-down to dry. 

Three things are clear to him in that moment, laying themselves out like a well-argued motion he’s to present at an arraignment: one, Carisi helped himself to coffee. Two, he cleaned up after himself.

And three, he guessed when Barba would wake and set the coffee pot to brew again. And he was right about it.

Barba doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge. It might as well be a foreign language for all he understands of it. He moves on bleary-eyed autopilot through his kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee and inhaling the rising steam, but when he relaxes back against the countertop, he sees the upside-down mug again. 

He feels strangely delicate, skittish and nervous and unsettled, and he’s not _used to it_ , not when it doesn’t come with the rush of adrenaline of a courtroom setting. A part of him has been stripped back and opened up and seen by someone else, someone who now knows him intimately. 

Barba is good at honesty. He’s good at barbed insults and blunt facts, but he fails when it comes to exactly this. _Intimacy_. He doesn’t know how to let other people feel him out with their fingers, searching for a tender spot, because it sounds so much like a mistake. Like something to be held over his head and used against him. 

First rule of being a prosecutor. Don’t let it become personal, because the defense will use that against you. Distance yourself from it. Immediately. 

Barba takes a sip of his coffee and scoffs at himself. _Prosecutorial misconduct_. How dramatic. 

* * *

Between his first and second coffee of the day, he picks out his outfit: a charcoal grey suit and a sky blue tie. He forgoes a waistcoat - the thought of long fingers picking at his buttons too much a distraction - and selects his favourite pair of leather-tabbed suspenders, sliding them up his arms with an exaggerated roll of his shoulder. 

When he returns to the kitchen, he notices that the bottle of scotch he left out on the side last night is gone; and in the living room, his empty glass and Carisi’s half-finished beer have both been cleared from the coffee table. 

The only evidence of Carisi being here is his absence. The realisation makes Barba stop as he’s reaching for his coat, his briefcase propped at his feet. His hand drops heavily to his side.

Traces of those small, quiet kindnesses again. Barba didn’t ask for any of it, but Carisi didn’t need to be asked. He just did. He just _does_.

He does and does and does and he never expects to be thanked for it, because for him, it’s likely as easy as breathing: that ridiculous need of his to take care of other people, to protect them from a world that would do them harm, even if they insist that they’re fine by themselves. 

_What is it that you want from me?_ is the question that circles him, tying him up in knots, but now there is another, like a pair of cuffs snapped onto the wrists. _What is it that I want from you?_

Barba inhales deeply, but it does little to settle him. He smooths his hands down the lapels of his coat, checks his phone once more for any urgent emails, and summons his mental plan for the day, already craving the third cup of coffee he will get from the cart on the corner of the block. 

He reaches for his briefcase and then -

Then, he sees Carisi’s uniform hat, hung up on the back of the door and forgotten.

He takes it without thinking. 

* * *

There’s a part of Barba glad not to be prosecuting the Munson case - a fairly significant, hefty part at that, one that’s not even bothered when the DA gives it to O’Dwyer instead. The DA’s excuse is that Barba is part of the Sex Crimes Bureau and O’Dwyer is not, and is therefore better suited to prosecute a homicide, but what goes unspoken is _recuse yourself or risk a lawsuit when defense counsel catches wind of your relationship with SVU_. 

Barba doesn’t argue with that. The DA has a point, even if Barba won’t admit to it out loud.

He didn’t know Mike Dodds well, but he does know Carisi, and the thought of standing in front of Munson in the witness box and feeling Carisi’s eyes bore into the back of his neck is not something he wants to inflict on himself.

Besides, there are more pressing things to deal with. Number one on his list is the sight of Rita Calhoun lounging behind his desk when he finally escapes the DA and makes it to his office.

“Carmen let me in,” Rita says before Barba can get a word in. “And before you scold her for it, know that I told her I was here on personal, and not professional, business, and therefore has your best interests at heart.”

She looks as sharp and well-polished as she always does, and that makes Barba worry that his own disarray is glaringly obvious. His jacket is buttoned and his hair is combed, but there must be something on his face that is apparent, because Rita watches him like a hawk.

“Hm,” says Barba, dumping his briefcase on his desk and stalking over to the coffee pot. He pours himself a cup and throws it back, grimacing at the taste. It’s been left standing for too long and tastes like jet fuel without any milk.

Rita swings her feet off his desk and spins to face him in his chair. “You didn’t reply to my email last night, so I thought I would stop by and see this protection detail in person.” She peers around Barba, looking to the door. “Although it seems I’m out of luck. Did you ditch them?”

“You’ll be disappointed to hear that they don’t follow me into the building,” Barba says. He scowls at her until she slinks out of his chair, and then he begins emptying his briefcase, setting out files in regimented order across his desk. “Was there something else I can do for you, Rita?”

Rita circles around his desk, her steps long and slow and posturing, and runs her manicured hand along the back of the chair in front of him. She stops, drumming her fingernails against the leather, and looks down over her shoulder at him.

“The Munson case came across my desk this morning,” she says delicately. “Unfortunately, I’ve just hired a new paralegal and she must’ve mixed it up with some other files and taken it to the shredder. A shame, really, losing a high-profile ticket like that, but what can you do.”

The corner of Barba’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t look up from his briefcase, unwilling to give Rita the satisfaction of a full smile. 

“Sounds like you should give that paralegal a raise,” he says matter-of-factly, and Rita laughs. “Saved you a lot of paperwork and perhaps one strained friendship.”

“Indeed,” she replies. “I’d rather not feel the full extent of Lieutenant Benson’s ire - oh, you meant _you_.” Barba rolls his eyes dramatically, but it only makes Rita’s sly smile grow. “Speaking of Olivia, actually, how was the funeral-”

She’s interrupted by a knock on the door, and Barba calls out, “It’s open, Carmen, come in.”

Carmen pokes her head through the door a moment later, looking just as put-together as Rita. 

“Mr. Barba?” she says. “Sorry to interrupt, but the Detective just left these for you. It seemed fairly urgent.” She holds out a thin stack of files and Barba’s head snaps up before he can stop himself.

“Detective?” he asks, as Carmen crosses the room and hands him the files. “Which one?”

“Detective Rollins,” Carmen replies, “She said she couldn’t stay to talk, but that everything you need is in there.”

“Alright, thank you, Carmen,” says Barba. She gives him a curt nod and slips back out the door, and Barba sets the files on the corner of his desk, unwilling to open them in company. 

It matters little. Rita has always been frustratingly astute.

“Which Detective were you hoping for?” she asks, leaning heavily on the back of the chair in front of him. “Or is that something better discussed over drinks tonight?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barba mutters. The only thing left inside his open briefcase is Carisi’s hat. He snaps it shut and glares at Rita. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”

Rita smirks at him. “Pleading the fifth is never a sign of innocence, Rafael.”

* * *

Rita doesn’t linger, and Rollins doesn’t come back, and Barba doesn’t have a single visitor until sundown, when his uniformed shadow appears in his doorway for a check-in. The questions are always the same: _have you seen anyone following you or acting suspiciously today? Have you received any strange phone calls? Any unmarked packages? Will you be returning straight home tonight?_

Barba’s answers are always curt, but tonight, he has to bite back the urge to snap at her, his patience tested. Instead, he tells her that he still has work to do and he won’t be leaving for a while, and that she should go ahead. She scowls at him, and tells him primly that he should text her when he’s ready to leave, but Barba’s nose is already buried deep in paperwork again.

If she sighs or rolls her eyes on the way out the door, he doesn’t notice. 

After, the silence is chafing. The rain is back and beats relentlessly against his office window, and he orders enough takeout for two, even though he knows he can’t eat it all and he doesn’t want to carry it home. He leaves a tinfoil container unopened on the table by his couch, a pair of chopsticks resting on the lid, but no-one stops by to claim it. 

The return to the real world is a strange one; already, the funeral, the bar, the front seat of Carisi’s car are a memory, and last night feels like a moment taken out of time, but now locked there. Grief and bereavement linger with it, and all Barba wants to know is how long one is supposed to cling to such things before it’s past the time to let them go. 

At midnight, he gives up; words are blurring on the page and his eyelids are drooping and there’s a headache brewing deep behind his eyes. Outside on the sidewalk, slammed car doors are louder, making him flinch; and inside his Uber, his glances in the rearview mirror last for longer.

And his phone hasn’t rung once. 

In the back of the car, he thumbs through his phone contacts, scrolling back and forth over Carisi’s name, but doesn’t press call. He struggles to line his thoughts up into some semblance of order. 

He should wait. He shouldn’t be the first to call; he’s not desperate; he knows how to play it cool. Carisi will give in eventually. And if he doesn’t, it’s just a matter of time before they run into each other at the precinct. Then, they’ll talk, exchange playful insults, Barba will tease him and Carisi will scowl and puff out his chest, and they’ll return to the well-trodden normal they both know, as if last night never happened; a shared and singular and unrepeated moment. 

A fluke.

Barba thinks about drawn curtains, washed-up mugs, and hats left behind and forgotten. He thinks about the weight of Carisi’s silver medallion in the palm of his hand.

_Right._

This feels, again, like another absence.

* * *

He takes Rita up on her offer of drinks - not the first night, but the second night after the funeral with no word from Carisi - and she persuades him to accompany her to an upscale bar in Soho where she’s already befriended the sommelier. 

Amidst the restlessness of a bar, Barba is unable to settle. He feels noticeable, obvious, like there are eyes on his back and someone can see the marks on him beneath his suit: both the weariness of a long few months and the bruise fading on his collarbone. 

He orders himself an expensive scotch, dark and golden and oaky, strong enough to lick at his nerves and quieten the residual hum of New York in his ears. He asks Rita about her caseload for want to fill a scrutinising silence; he hums and nods as she talks about her new office hire, laughs with her when she mocks O’Dwyer and the DA’s plan for the Munson case. He checks his phone for new messages as Rita recounts an awful date from the week before - but the sex was good, so she’s considering seeing him again. 

There are still no new messages in Barba’s inbox. He presses his mouth into a tight line as he hits the lock button and his phone screen turns black. 

Rita is three glasses of white wine deep when she turns to Barba and looks pointedly down at his phone. “If I’d known I was going to play second fiddle to your Blackberry tonight, I wouldn’t have asked you out.”

Barba rolls his eyes and exchanges his phone for his glass, taking a sip of his scotch. “You’ve been making eyes at the bartender all night, why does it matter if I’m looking at my phone? I might as well not even be here.”

Rita twists on her stool to face him, one leg crossed over the other. She sets her glass down on the bar and fixes him with a no-nonsense look. “You have my undivided attention, Rafael,” she drawls. “Now, tell me whose call you’re waiting for and why you can’t stop checking your messages every two minutes. You’re not expecting an update on the case, are you? I know Liv works some terrible hours, but I can’t imagine she’s traipsing the streets at eleven o’clock at night looking for some poor idiot who thought it smart to threaten an ADA on the steps of the courthouse.” 

“Not exactly,” Barba says, swirling his scotch, “Although an update would be nice. Last I heard, they were no closer to catching him, and it’s not especially reassuring to know there’s someone out there who wants to see me dead. It’s one Hell of a mood killer.”

Rita’s eyes narrow. “But you _are_ waiting for a call from one of the Detectives?” she surmises. “Or am I wrong?”

“It’s uncanny, the sixth sense you have for gossip that’s absolutely _none_ of your business,” Barba mutters. He gulps down another mouthful of scotch, pulling a face as it burns the back of his throat. 

“Defense lawyers,” Rita replies, “It’s all part of the job.” She runs her fingers up and down the stem of her wine glass and hums. “But you didn’t deny it, so I’ll take that as an admission of guilt-”

“ _Rita_.”

“Which one was it? Not Rollins, you weren’t keen to see her yesterday, I remember. And not - oh, God, what’s his name, I don’t think I’ve ever heard him string together a sentence longer than five words before -”

“Detective Tutuola.”

“Yes, that’s the one, although I can’t imagine you’re expecting a personal call from _him_ , the man barely talks as it is.” Rita purses her lips in thought. “Olivia, then? I suppose she is your type.”

Barba raises an eyebrow. “And what _is_ my type, precisely?”

“Women who could beat you in an argument and men who look at you like they want to _be_ you,” Rita says breezily, but then her smile sharpens. “Ah. I see. You’re waiting for Detective _Staten Island_. Well, we can’t all account for taste.”

Barba bristles, returning his attention to his scotch. He finishes his glass, flags the bartender for another, and then, because he can’t help himself, checks his phone again. 

“Good grief, Rafael-”

“I have something of his that I need to return,” Barba interrupts, talking more to his empty glass than to Rita. “It’s not important. A pain, really.”

“But it’s important enough that you haven’t stopped thinking about it since we sat down,” Rita says. “And how exactly did you come into possession of such an item of imperative importance that it must be returned post haste to the Detective?” 

Barba fixes her with a flat look. He’s not about to spell it out for her, but she’s always been far too good at reading his moods, ever since their Harvard days, and it’s not like he’s hiding his sourness tonight.

Rita, at least, does him the service of pretending to be shocked.

“Well now,” she says, half a purr as she lends back in her seat. She picks up her wine again and sips it thoughtfully; she might as well be preening. “That _is_ a predicament. Ghosted by a man ten years your junior after you finally manage to take him to bed.”

“If you don’t have anything useful to say, then you don’t need to say it,” Barba retorts. Then, reluctantly, he adds, “It was two nights ago, after the funeral. We got talking, I didn’t want to go home alone. Emotions were high. It just happened.”

“Well, I suppose pity is an emotion,” Rita muses. ”So, just how drunk _were_ you?”

“I’m not drunk enough for this conversation, that’s for sure,” Barba mutters. “And I wasn’t. Nor was he. In his line of work, he never would’ve come near me if he was even remotely intoxicated, you know that.”

“Ah, so he came on to you? That is a surprise. I really thought the poor man had resigned himself to a life of pining from a distance while you obtusely ignored him.”

Barba grits his teeth. “That’s irrelevant. It was a one time thing and won’t be repeated. We’re both adults. We’ll be able to move past it and it won’t have to affect our professional lives-”

“But you don’t want it to be,” Rita cuts in. “A one time thing, I mean. And, I’m assuming, he doesn’t want it to be either. Anyone with eyes can see the man’s besotted.” 

Barba studies her for a moment; it would be easy to deny it, and he would deny it if it was anybody else asking, but he knows there’s no use in lying to Rita Calhoun. She’s a bloodhound for the truth. 

And the truth, this time, is that he wants something from Carisi that he doesn’t know how to articulate, because he’s never wanted it before. 

He gestures dramatically at his phone. “Thus, the waiting game.”

“Oh, Rafael,” Rita sighs, but any consolation is ruined by her predatory smile. “Not used to being unable to talk yourself out of a mess, hm? Your misery delights me.”

* * *

Barba caves after three days. He tells himself that he’s not the sort of man who waits around for what he wants; if he needs something, he works for it. He doesn’t give up until he has it in his grasp. That’s been true his whole life, from the Bronx, the Cambridge, to here.

He sends a text to Liv.

It’s a compromise, of sorts. He still hasn’t figured out what he wants to tell Carisi - ‘ _I have your hat’_ seems far too contrived, and in Carisi’s shoes, Barba would see right through him - and nor does he want to give the Detective the upper hand, because God knows Barba’s pride is delicate on the best of days.

He types out a number of different messages over his lunch break, pacing back and forth in front of the window in his office, but he settles on the most straight forward. He wants to know about Heredio. Everything else should be secondary.

To: Liv Benson | 29 Apr 2016 13:22

_Any updates on my predicament?_

Less than a minute after he hits send, his phone begins to ring. Olivia’s name flashes across the screen. 

“Liv,” he answers, balancing his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he crosses his office to draw the blinds, giving Carmen a cursory nod through the glass. “Please tell me you have good news.”

“I do,” says Liv. In the background, Barba can hear the clamour of the precinct, shouting and clanging and then the slamming of Liv’s office door as she retreats into some semblance of privacy. “But Carisi was supposed to touch base with you-”

“I guess he forgot,” Barba interrupts. “The Detective’s got a lot on his plate, I’m sure.”

Liv makes a noncommittal noise. “We caught Heredio early this morning. Carisi and Rollins brought him in, although I haven’t heard the details from them yet. I’ve been in a meeting at 1PP with IAB all morning.” 

Barba finds himself holding his breath. “I see.”

“Carisi’s in interrogation with Heredio now, but I think we’ll be able to do a lineup this afternoon, if you can get down here,” Liv continues, “His lawyer just turned up. I don’t recognise him.”

“How did Carisi find him? Heredio, I mean.”

“Carisi’s barely left his desk since Monday. He’s been working hard on this. Pulled more double shifts this week than I would like, but -”

“Exceptional circumstances.”

“Exactly,” Liv sighs, and Barba imagines her pushing her glasses up into her hair and rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “I’ll have to thank him. He’s gone and above this week with this investigation and I know it’s been hard on all of them to get back to work after everything that happened. God knows I don’t want to think about it yet.”

_I doubt he’s doing it to be thanked_ , Barba thinks. _I doubt he’s even doing it for me._

Instead, he asks, “What about the protection detail?”

Liv exhales heavily again. “I’m reluctant to pull them off just yet, Rafa, in case Heredio wasn’t working alone. I know it’s not convenient, but it is for the best. But I’ll ask Carisi to talk with Threat Assessment and see what they have to say. He's the lead detective on this one, so I’ll leave it with him.”

“Carisi didn’t tell me that.” 

“Yes, he volunteered, which is another thing I’m thankful for because the rest of us are up to our eyeballs in the Munson case. O’Dwyer runs a tight ship. Sometimes I wonder if we can ever catch a break.”

“God knows you deserve one,” Barba says, returning to the window again so that he can peer out over grey New York. “Alright. I don’t have any arraignments this afternoon, so I’ll stop by the precinct as soon as I’m done with meetings. Won’t be later than five.”

“I’ve got to pick Noah up from kindergarten, but Rollins and Carisi will be here to meet you. If we don’t see each other, how about a drink tomorrow night? Forlini’s, my treat?”

“Sounds wonderful,” Barba says, “Take care of yourself, Liv.”

“And you, Rafael.”

The phone line beeps as she disconnects the call. The silence is quickly punctuated by the sound of car horns out on the street, someone leaning out of their window to swear at another driver for cutting them off.

A police car hurtles past in the opposite direction, sirens blazing. Barba watches it go, leaning back on the edge of his conference table, tapping his phone against his mouth in thought. 

_‘Why did you decide to become a cop?’_

_‘I wanted to help people.’_

Barba can picture it now: that morning, Carisi beside him in his bed. 

Carisi waking before him. Carisi laying there, sheets tangled around his bare legs, watching Barba sleep as the sun dawned across his chest. And with it, thoughts of Mike Dodds and death threats and decisions he could’ve made and should’ve made. All the things he could’ve done to save Dodds from bleeding out on that living room floor, and all the things he could yet do to let Barba sleep peacefully for an hour or two longer. 

His large hands, sweeping up Barba’s arm in sleep; his fingers, touching Barba’s jaw. His medallion, dangling from his neck as he bowed over Barba from above and watched the minute twitches of his brow as the sunlight began to rouse him.

Being too restless to lay still and sliding out of bed, the sheets catching around his ankles. Tidying up Barba’s strewn clothes and setting the coffee pot on a timer and hopping around Barba’s apartment trying to pull his shoes on without making any noise.

Not leaving a note because he knew Barba would scold him for it, and then driving across the city with his hands drumming against the steering wheel, only to be chewed out by Rollins, once he arrived at the precinct, for still being in his dress uniform and unshowered, twelve hours later. 

_‘Let me do something right.’_

Barba closes his eyes and scrubs his hand across his face, feeling exhausted.

_God damn selfless people._

He pushes away from the table and returns to his desk, planning on using his afternoon to work through the insurmountable pile of precedent he needs to find for this week’s arraignments, but as he slumps into his chair and throws his feet up on his desk, his phone vibrates in his hand.

From: Carisi SVU | 29 Apr 2016 13:45

_we got heredio_

Barba stares at the text message for what feels like an age, but when no follow-up arrives, he taps out a response.

From: Barba | 29 Apr 2016 13:52

 _Yes, I heard. Liv told me_ . _I suppose you’ll need me for the lineup?_

From: Carisi SVU | 29 Apr 2016 13:53

_shit sorry_

From: Carisi SVU | 29 Apr 2016 13:54

_i’ve been in interrogation all day so i couldn’t call_

From: Carisi SVU | 29 Apr 2016 13:55

_i meant to call_

_‘I meant to call’_ is a line Barba has been fed a hundred times, and a line he’s used himself in callous disregard a hundred more. Filler words and empty promises for boyfriends and girlfriends and warm bodies in his bed that he had no plans to see again. 

_I meant to call, but a better offer came up. I meant to call, but I figured you’d be too busy to answer. I meant to call, but I don’t think this is going to work out between us._ That’s how it always goes.

But, somehow, this doesn’t feel like all those times before. When he stares at the four simple words on the screen, all he can picture is Carisi bent over his phone in the precinct, his hair dragged up on end and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his foot tap-tap-tapping against the floor as he second-guesses whether he should’ve ended that text with a full stop. 

He can feel Carisi’s restless, frenetic energy from half-way across the city. 

“Mr. Barba?”

Barba looks up to see Carmen in his doorway, her coat draped over her arm and her purse hanging from her shoulder. She’s frowning at him.

“Something the matter, Carmen?”

“Buchanan called and cancelled your three o’clock,” she says, pursing her lips. “And I finished the briefings for next week, so I hoped you wouldn’t mind if I left early. I have weekend plans and I - are you alright, Mr. Barba?”

Her eyes drop down to his hand, where he’s clutching his Blackberry in a tight grip. 

“Some bad news? Do you need me to stay?”

“No. No, everything’s fine. Nothing of importance,” Barba says. He sets his phone face down and swings his feet off his desk. “Of course you can leave, I’m almost done here. Was the Buchanon meeting all that I had this afternoon?”

Carmen nods as if she doesn’t quite believe him. “Yes, it was. I rescheduled him for Monday morning, before arraignments. You might be able to get an early night tonight, Mr. Barba.”

Barba smiles wryly as his phone buzzes with another incoming message. 

From: Carisi SVU | 29 Apr 2016 14:03

_do you think it’s a mistake to sleep with someone right after a funeral?_

Barba’s thumbs fly across the keyboard as he types out a quick response.

From: Barba | 29 Apr 2016 14:03

_That’s a leading question. Why do you ask?_

From: Carisi SVU | 29 Apr 2016 14:04

_idk but it’s kinda fucked up right?_

From: Carisi SVU | 29 Apr 2016 14:04

 _like who comes home from church and thinks u know what would be a really good idea, jumping into bed with a guy i work with, what could go wrong_

Across the room, Carmen clears her throat. 

“I’ll see you Monday, Mr. Barba,” she says pointedly, “Don’t stay too late.”

Barba looks down at his phone, and then up at her again. Then, suddenly, he stands, scraping his chair back as he grabs for his briefcase and begins shoving files into it.

“I’ll walk you out,” he announces, “If you’re heading uptown, we can share a car. I need to make a stop at the precinct anyway.” He grabs his coat from the coat stand and tucks his briefcase under his arm, all the while clutching his Blackberry in his free hand.

Carmen shakes her head at him, but her smile wins out.

“Fine, but you’re paying,” she says.

She turns and walks out, and Barba checks his phone again. The unanswered message stares up at him with all the subtlety of a grating accent from south of the river.

From: Carisi SVU | 29 Apr 2016 14:04

_like who comes home from church and thinks u know what would be a really good idea, jumping into bed with a guy i work with, what could go wrong_

Barba recalls Heredio’s breath against his ear, his slick whisper and the prodding of a metaphorical gun into the small of Barba’s back. He remembers the rush of adrenaline followed thereafter by the cold stab of fear, and then the gut punch of receiving Liv’s call about Dodds not a week later. _No-one’s truly safe in this line of work._

Then, he thinks of Carisi on his couch, arching up into his touch, throwing his head back so that Barba’s teeth might find his neck. He thinks of Carisi saying, between bitten-back gasps, _‘I’ve thought about this so fucking much._ ’

He thinks of Rita in the bar last night: _the man’s besotted_.

He wants to believe her, and perhaps, with the gracious yet often unforgiving benefit of hindsight, he will, but for now, Barba trusts in only that which he can see. He decides to be honest. 

From: Barba | 29 Apr 2016 14:07

_Grief leads us to make strange choices._

From: Barba | 29 Apr 2016 14:07

_Not all are bad._

* * *

Barba hasn’t been to the precinct in days - certainly not since Munson’s first arraignment - but the atmosphere that greets him is solemn and oppressive.

A police precinct is never a pleasant place to be, a hive of brutish officers and smarmy defense lawyers and the stench of sweat and cheap filter coffee. It’s always loud and brackish, but today, the air is thick and heavy with the mugginess of New York succeeding a downpour.

The smell of rain and muggy petrichor is strong, and the linoleum floor is trampled with mud and wet shoe prints. 

In the bullpen, there’s a large white canvas sign propped up on a table by the wall. It reads: _Good Luck, Sergeant Dodds_ in ugly cursive handwriting, and Barba hopes Liv didn’t pay someone good money for an eyesore.

All the desks are empty, no sign of Carisi or Rollins or even Fin, who is so often an immovable feature of the sixteenth precinct’s fifth floor, the one constant Barba can always rely on to greet him with complete indifference. 

The blinds in Liv’s office are drawn and no light escapes from beneath her door, so Barba must have already missed her. He makes a beeline for the round conference table in the centre of the room, surrounded on three sides by whiteboards, and shrugs out of his cot, draping it across the back of one of the chairs.

He can’t sit down. His foot will start tapping and his fingers will start drumming, and all of that’s a tell, one too easily spotted and scrutinised by eagle-eyed detectives. 

He hears Rollins’ southern drawl before he sees her - she stalks into the bullpen alone, two cups of bodega coffee in her hands, one of which she leaves on Carisi’s desk. She looks haggard and worn-thin, her blonde hair scraped up into a messy ponytail and her shoes well-scuffed by a long day racing up and down the length of the city.

She doesn’t seem surprised to see Barba there, but she doesn’t look too pleased either.

“Oh, hey, Barba,” she says, “You here for the lineup, right?”

“Yes,” he says. He looks her up and down, seeking out the Dodds-shaped cracks in her less-than-civil veneer, but she doesn’t wear them like Carisi does. They’re much harder to spot. “You look like you’ve had a long day.”

Rollins snorts and takes a long slurp of her coffee. “Gee, thanks, Counselor,” she says. “You’d look like shit too if you’d been up since five AM and hadn’t had any caffeine yet.”

Barba hums in agreement. “And where’s the rest of the Brady Bunch?” 

“Fin’s down in holding,” Rollins says. “Liv’s out and Carisi is -” She looks around the bullpen and frowns, as if realising for the first time that they’re alone and her partner isn’t where he’s supposed to be. “Carisi _was_ here.” 

She pulls out her phone and types out a text one-handed, punctuating it with sips of her coffee, and Barba pretends like he isn’t interested, tucking his hands into his pockets and surveying the room. 

Rollins’ phone chimes and she rolls her eyes. “He’s on his way. Lord knows what he was doing, he’s been weird all week.” She gives Barba a knowing look. “Well, weird for Carisi.”

Barba finds something to look at on the ceiling. “Oh? I find that hard to believe.”

Rollins just shrugs. “You’ll see,” she says. “There’s a lot of hovering, a lot of not minding his own business. Riding our asses like he runs the place.” She laughs lightly. “Doesn’t sound any different from usual, huh?”

They stand for a while in the awkward silence of two colleagues who have very little in common outside their work; Rollins drinks her coffee and Barba scrolls through his phone, skimming over a new email from Rita (which he’ll reply to later) and another from John Buchanon (to which he won’t reply at all). 

Then -

“Amanda, hey! Fin says he’s got the lineup ready, so we’re good to go! Is Barba here yet -”

Carisi strides into the bullpen like a whirlwind but stops mid-sentence. Today, he’s wearing a deep navy suit and a thin red tie, but his jacket is wrinkled in a way that means it was hastily pulled out of a garment bag and thrown on in the locker room. There’s a heavy set to his brow and a bright, angry flush in his cheeks, nothing more than the exertion of rushing up the stairs two at a time, but his eyes find Barba’s like a homing beacon and go wide.

“Counselor,” he says, and that scowl of his melts. “Uh. Hey.” 

“Detective,” Barba replies coolly. He resists the urge to step forward; Rollins is still between them and watching him curiously. “Is now not a good time?”

“No, no - I mean, yeah. Yeah, now’s a great time, I was just - ” He thumbs over his shoulder as he trips over all the words he tries to say at once. “Yeah. Yeah, we should - uh. Do you wanna, maybe - ?”

“Well, we should probably get this over with,” Rollins interrupts, draining her coffee abruptly. “Y’all can stand around chatting if you want, but I wanna get home in time to walk Frannie before it gets dark and I got a lotta paperwork to finish.” She looks at Carisi. “Did Fin say if Heredio’s any more cooperative after having some time to cool off?”

At the mention of Heredio’s name, two things happen simultaneously: Barba clenches his jaw, curling his hands into fists inside the pockets of his slacks; and Carisi bristles, although Barba doesn’t know why. Barba raises an eyebrow at him - _I saw that, Detective_ \- but Carisi turns to Rollins, angling himself so that the side of his body faces Barba. 

“You mind getting the Counselor set up at the window?” he asks Rollins. “I’m gonna check if Fin needs any help, but I’ll catch up with you guys.”

“Sure,” Rollins says carefully, narrowing her eyes. Carisi throws her a thankful smile and claps her on the shoulder and then sprints away as fast as he arrived, leaving Rollins confused and Barba -

Well. For once, he doesn’t have the words.

“What was that about?” he scowls. 

“Hell if I know,” Rollins replies, “I was about to ask you the same thing. But like I said - _weird_.” She tilts her head towards the interrogation rooms and Barba follows after her, leaving his coat and briefcase behind.

They come to a stop in front of an empty room, a mirrored pane of glass between them and the flickering yellow light inside - and it’s a room which Barba has stood in front of a million times before, but never as the victim. 

It makes his stomach turn, the cold drip of fear rippling through him.

Logically, it makes no sense: he’s in a police precinct, Rollins at his shoulder with her service weapon on her hip - _what could possibly go wrong?_ He’s as safe as safe can be, and yet he feels his grasp on his control slip, ever so slightly. 

That, in turn, makes him angry. Hell, he’s fucking _furious_ how far Heredio and his idle threats managed to slither under his skin and unsettle him, and it’s accompanied by a wash of sympathy for every woman who has stood in this exact spot before him and had to face down her attacker while he waited in aloof silence beside her. 

It’s _violating_. Having that power over somebody else. 

“He got into it with Heredio when we picked him up,” Rollins remarks then, her attention fixed on the window. She leans all her weight on one hip, her thumbs hooked into the pockets of her jeans, and her mouth screws up into a knot. “Carisi, I mean. Again when we were in interrogation. I dunno what Heredio said, but it rattled him good. I’ve never seen Carisi like that before. Not just cross, but - _hateful_. He’s not like that.”

“Hm,” says Barba.

“He took this one pretty personally,” she adds. This time, Barba catches her eye in the reflection in the glass. “You know much about that? Somethin’ happen that I don’t know about?” 

Barba considers that for a moment, willing to let Rollins stew in his silence. Then, after a long and pregnant pause, he says, “Whatever you’re fishing for, Detective, I’m not going to bite. You best cast your net elsewhere.”

Rollins huffs, shaking her head, but there’s a small, wry smile pulling up the corner of her mouth. On the other side of the glass, Fin appears, leading a procession of six men into the room, all of whom are holding placards, and some of which are looking more morose than others.

Heredio, the third from left, walks in with an overconfident swagger in his step. He throws a grin towards the window - like he knows Barba is there, watching him, his skin crawling - but Barba doesn’t react. He _refuses_ to react, if only for the sake of his own inflated pride. 

Behind him, he hears Carisi - his low, rapid murmur, the sound of his shoes on the floor. Barba refuses to take his eyes off the glass, but in much the same way as he met Rollins, he finds Carisi in the reflection, returning with a thin, reticent-looking man in tow. 

The other man is of little interest to Barba: he’s poorly dressed and harried, a defense attorney who is clearly not being paid enough for what will be a sure-fire loss. Carisi doesn’t bother with introductions for the very same reason, leaving the man alone at the window so that he can duck behind Rollins and slide into the space on Barba’s right. 

The smell of his aftershave is faint - a day or two old by now - but Barba inhales it all the same. The familiarity is enough. 

He stands tall, holding his chin up as he stares through the glass. But then, for the briefest of moments, he falters, with the arrival of Carisi’s hand on his elbow.

Not quite a touch. Barely the press of his fingers to Barba’s jacket, really. But it’s reassurance in the easiest language Carisi knows how to speak - _action, service, whatever Barba deigns to call it_ \- as he steps up to Barba’s side and turns his body inwards. He becomes that same, open parenthesis he was in the bar the other night, a pause between Barba and everyone else. A welcoming space; some coveted breathing room. 

Carisi reaches out and taps his knuckles against Barba’s arm. It’s both a sheepish _sorry_ and a bashful _hello_ , and safe, too, because Barba’s body blocks Rollins’ prying eyes. 

Barba glances away from the window, only for a fraction of a second. 

Carisi is already looking at him. His eyes ask a simple, guileless question: _you okay?_

No, it’s more than that. It’s _what can I do to help?_

“Alright, Barba,” says Rollins. “You know how this goes. Just let us know if you see the guy who threatened you.”

Barba returns his attention back to the window. He studies each of the six men in the lineup in detail, even though he’s seen only one of them before. He picks out a unique feature from each of them: a scar, a bald patch, a mole that needs the attention of a doctor.

Heredio smirks back at him. And rather than cold fear or the restless need to look back over his shoulder or even warmth at the solid line of Carisi’s body buffeting against his, Barba just feels _tired_. 

So very, very tired.

“Number three,” he says. He presses his mouth into a thin, distasteful line. “He looks smaller in there.”

“They usually do, Counselor,” says Rollins. She slips away, the paltry defense lawyer following after her like a scolded child.

Carisi leans forward and knocks on the glass three times. He says to Barba, “For what it’s worth, while he was in holding, he told me he got paid $250 each time he talked to you.”

Barba swallows thickly, unable to look away from the lineup. Fin appears on the other side of the glass and tells Heredio to step forward, but Barba can’t hear what’s being said, fixated on the shiny silver cuffs locked around Heredio’s wrists.

“$250? That’s it? I should be offended,” he mutters. “Who paid him?”

“That, he wouldn’t say. Based on what he did say, Threat Assessment’s going to keep the security detail on you 24/7.”

Barba sighs heavily and turns away from the window. “Terrific,” he grumbles, tucking his hands into his pockets as Carisi falls into step beside him, a heavy set to his shoulders too. “Still want to be an ADA?”

Carisi chews the words inside his mouth. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he admits.

Barba glances around the bullpen. They’re as alone as they can be, but he doesn’t want to risk someone overhearing more than they must. He chooses his words carefully. Deliberately.

“I heard there’s an opening in Brooklyn.” 

Carisi’s step falters, but only Barba is close enough to notice, and only he understands why. 

Carisi licks his lips before he speaks. “Thing is, Counselor, I took an oath to protect and serve.” He stops at his desk and turns to face Barba, and Barba can’t help but tilt his chin up to look Carisi in the eye. “So, I don’t wanna leave. Not now, anyway. After what happened to Dodds, it just … doesn’t feel right.”

“I get it,” says Barba. “In the end, we’re all just passing through.” He nods his head in the direction of Liv’s office. “How’s Liv doing?”

Carisi’s voice is pinched; Barba wonders if he knows that it’s not really Liv he’s asking after. “She’s taking it hard.”

Barba’s expression softens. _I wish I could help_ , he thinks. _I wish I could stop it from hurting but you know I’m not good at that._

_It’s not in my nature._

He sees the frustration as clear as day on Carisi’s face; Carisi has never been good at hiding his feelings and, right now, all he wants to do is fix things, for Liv, for Barba, for himself and for Dodds.

It’s incredibly noble and incredibly naive. Barba can’t help but wonder what sort of toll that much optimism has on one person - how much of yourself can you give away in bits and pieces until there’s none of you left? It doesn’t seem sustainable. 

Barba reaches out and claps Carisi on the arm, and as brief as the touch is, Carisi’s warmth still leaches through his suit and tingles in Barba’s palm. 

Barba’s heart feels heavy. He pushes past Carisi and grabs his coat and his briefcase as he heads for the elevators. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do with the rest of his day, but he needs to not be _here_ , not while Heredio is in holding and Barba can still picture his smirking face through the glass of the lineup window, as if he could see the way Carisi was touching him.

Maybe he’ll go home and finish that bottle of scotch. Maybe he’ll call Rita and see if she has another bar in mind and some time to spare. Maybe he’ll just walk and won’t feel guilty about giving his protection detail the slip.

He passes Rollins on the way out, bent over her desk with her head in her hand as she scribbles through her paperwork. He gives her a nod and she returns a strange look, her eyes flitting over his shoulder, back at Carisi and whatever expression he must now wear. 

Barba doesn’t care for her questions, striding past her and out the bullpen, and stabbing the button to the elevator. He taps his foot against the floor until the elevator doors open and, thankfully, inside is empty.

“Hey, Counselor, wait up!” 

And there’s Carisi, suddenly, _predictably_ , racing after him like he was snapping at Barba’s heels the whole damn time. His expression is pulled into a grimace, and he slaps one hand against the doors to keep them from closing.

He stares Barba down, and without blinking, Barba jabs the button for the first floor. 

“I want to talk,” Carisi says, sounding like an accusation. “But you’re just leaving?”

“Yes, I’m sure you do,” says Barba, “And I’d rather not stay here longer than I have to while Heredio is still in the building. I’m sure you understand.”

Carisi frowns at him, lines marking his forehead. He glances over his shoulder, but Rollins is long gone and there’s no-one coming their way. He seems to be on the cusp of a decision.

Barba wants to kiss that stupid expression off his face. 

(And worse, he knows exactly how that would feel.)

“Are you coming or going, Detective?” he asks primly, “If you really want to talk, you can walk me out at the very least.” 

Carisi huffs and steps gingerly into the elevator, shoving his hands into his pockets. His eyes flick from his shoes, to Barba’s face, and then down again, and he shifts his weight from foot to foot. Barba pretends like he hasn’t seen, pressing again the button for the first floor, but he’s caught by the memory of something Carisi said on the night of the funeral. 

_‘You really gotta make everything difficult, don’t’cha, Counselor?’_

The elevator is not large, only a few feet of space between them. This time, there’s no smell of rain or waft of aftershave - if what Liv said is true, Carisi has probably been sleeping in the bunk room and showering in the precinct with shitty scentless soap - but the heat that seeps from him, the warmth without his knowing …

The warmth persists, as always. It’s been a very long time since Barba was immune to it. Days, months, years, perhaps. He’s lost count. 

“Sonny,” he says simply, and Carisi looks up, his eyes alight and a little hopeful. That, too, feels like an echo. 

The moment the elevator doors close, Barba drops his briefcase and grabs Carisi by the tie and reels him in, crushing his mouth against Carisi’s. There’s no finesse to it, no excuse of one too many scotches and an evening’s worth of stolen glances. Carisi groans against him, planting both hands on the wall either side of Barba’s head, and crowds him, his chest pressing flush against Barba’s. 

_There’s nothing difficult about this,_ is all Barba thinks.

He tangles one hand in Carisi’s slicked-back hair and gives it a short, sharp tug. Enough to make Carisi hiss through his teeth and slot his leg between Barba’s thighs and push him back - and God, yes, it’s what Barba craves. Saturation. 

He kisses Carisi hard and fast. It’s only a matter of time before the elevator doors reopen and Rollins, or worse, Liv returning from the school run, catch them _in flagrante delicto_ in the middle of the precinct; it makes his blood race. He bites at Carisi’s lower lip and then shoves him away.

Carisi staggers backwards, his face flushed and his hair and tie askew. 

The look in his eyes is wild, both panicked and earnest. He looks confused and he looks hopeful and, worst of all, he looks pliant, as if he’ll let Barba do anything or say anything, even if it hurts him and even though he clearly wants _more_. 

“I don’t think this counts as talking about it,” Carisi exhales, wiping his pinkened mouth on the back of his hand. He takes a cautious step back towards Barba. “Rafael, I-” 

Barba sighs and holds up his hand, telling Carisi to wait. He smooths his tie flat against his chest, pulling in one, two, three deep breaths, and then he picks up his briefcase. He breaks Carisi’s stare only to flip open both locks, and he pulls out Carisi’s uniform hat.

“You left this at my place. I’ve been waiting to give it back to you, but you didn’t call.”

“You didn’t call either,” Carisi huffs. “Phones work both ways.”

“So they do,” Barba says, and when Carisi doesn’t take the hat from him, Barba slides it back into his briefcase. “And I probably don’t have the same excuses you do, so you can blame me if you want. I’m not especially familiar with the rules here.”

“Rules?” Carisi echoes, his eyebrows pulling together. “What d’ya mean, rules?”

Barba waves his hand dismissively. “Unspoken social rules for what happens and how you’re supposed to act after you sleep with a colleague,” he says flippantly. “I’m not very good at them, as you might have realised. Unsurprisingly, I don’t have much experience in the area.”

The elevator continues its slow slide downwards. Barba’s eyes flick to the buttons on the wall; he only has a moment left before they reach the lowest floor, and if Carisi wants to say anything, then he better say it now, before they’re out on the sidewalk and Barba is calling himself an Uber. 

Carisi begins hesitantly. “So … this thing,” he says, and he gestures between his chest and Barba’s, edging ever forward. “Between us.”

“We slept together, Detective. You’re a big boy, you can use your words.”

Carisi rolls his eyes. “I’m not talking about that. Or, well, I’m not talking about _just_ that. I’m talking about all the things you told me about the death threats, and all the shit I told you about Mike, about this job, about all the stuff I _want_. I’m talking about -” He stops suddenly, stepping in front of Barba, and hits Barba on the chest with the back of his hand. “This. Me hanging off your every word and you -”

“And I?”

“-pretending like you don’t see the way I look at you. But I know you do. You gotta.”

The elevator comes to a stop and then, with a sigh, the doors open. Barba steps around Carisi, but before he can leave, Carisi reaches for his arm, fingers snagging his shirt.

“Do you regret it?” Carisi asks. It’s a simple question, but Barba is surprised by its simple answer.

“That depends.” 

“On what?”

Barba gently pulls his arm from Carisi’s grip, but he doesn’t move away. “Whether you’d like to do it again. What time does your shift end?”

“What time does my -” Carisi repeats, his mouth forming an open _oh_. “I mean, technically I’m on overtime right now, so -”

“I’m done for the day and I was thinking about getting dinner,” Barba interrupts. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he suspects that Carisi has it in his heart to forgive him for much worse crimes. “Perhaps you should join me. And then, after, there are still three beers in my refrigerator that I don’t plan on drinking. ” 

Slowly, Carisi’s mouth curves up into a smile. “Yeah,” he says, as they step out of the elevator together. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've been an SVU fan for over ten years and I've been a Barisi fandom lurker since season 17 was airing, but for some reason the stars didn't align until now for me to finally write something for them. Anyway, this verse is canon in my head, they definitely slept together after the funeral, and I won't accept anything else. 
> 
> I wanted to write a story exploring grief, but rather than Carisi's grief over Dodds, I wanted to look at it from Barba's adjacent perspective, and how he sees and reacts to it manifesting in Carisi, and how it relates to his own situation with the death threats and the fear he doesn't want to show over Heredio. In the end, however, this just ended up as 30k words of me explaining in excruciating detail why I love Carisi and his capacity for selflessness and kindness. 
> 
> Lastly, kudos and comments are very much appreciated! It's always very nerve-wracking to write a first fic for a new fandom, so I'd love to know what you think! I want to meet more Barisi people!


End file.
